


The Devil's Backbone

by nishiki



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Amnesiac Ivar the Boneless, Anal Sex, Brainwashing, Branding, Christianity, Clerics, Developing Relationship, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, False Identity, Forbidden Love, Hand Jobs, Ivar living as a monk, M/M, Monk Ivar the Boneless, Monks, Punishment, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Religion, Religious Conflict, Romance, Secret Relationship, Self-Flagellation, Sexual Repression, Sigurd is alive, Slow Romance, Temporary Amnesia, Whipping, no war between the brothers thank you, re-programming, set in season 5
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 15:40:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28815774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nishiki/pseuds/nishiki
Summary: The sons of Ragnar have taken York but their victory has come at a great price. While the warriors rejoice, the brothers deal with the loss of their youngest brother - not knowing, that Ivar has been taken from the battlefield by their enemy.
Relationships: Alfred & Ivar (Vikings), Heahmund/Ivar (Vikings), Hvitserk & Ivar (Vikings)
Comments: 60
Kudos: 117





	1. Prologue

The battle of York had been a success. They had easily taken the city, keeping it, however, was a whole different can of worms. Thanks to Ivar’s genius strategy, in the end, they had been victorious. As the warriors celebrated, the sons of Ragnar, however, felt no joy over their success. They had won the war for the dominance of York for now but their brother was dead. Now, as they sat together in the church of York with their horns filled with mead, Ubbe had little interest in keeping the town. Inside the church, it was silent except for the faint and far-away sounds of people celebrating their victory in the streets.

“What are we going to do now?” Bjorn, their oldest brother, their leader, addressed the situation at hand. Out of Bjorn’s mouth, the question sounded rhetorical more than anything as Ubbe and his remaining younger brothers already knew what Bjorn’s own answer to that would be. From the beginning, Bjorn had made it quite clear that he had no interest in this land and its riches. He had not even wanted to come to York in the first place and, in the end, only yielded because of Ivar’s promising plan and the fateful timing of their arrival at York. They had all taken it as a sign of the Gods that so soon after their arrival, another holy day would be celebrated and thus ease the way into the city for them. Not even Bjorn Ironside would go against the will of the Gods.

“Ivar would have wanted us to hold York,” Hvitserk replied with a small, lazy shrug as he was staring into his horn as if all the answers he was looking for lay on the bottom of it. “After he fought so hard to take it. He would want us to establish the stronghold he dreamed about and go through with his plans.”

“I want to go back to the Mediterranean Sea,” Bjorn said with a sigh. “My plan still stands. We have avenged our father’s death. It is time for me to follow my own path again.”

“And what about avenging Ivar’s death?” Sigurd, to everyone’s surprise, hissed and sent a glare Bjorn’s way. “What about him? Don't you want to rip Aethelwulf apart for taking your little brother? I know I want to.”

“He fell in battle, Sigurd,” Bjorn remained patient. “This is the most he could have ever hoped for - a cripple like him. I am sure he is already feasting in Valhalla with our father. My decision is certain. I will return to my travels and I will take Halfdan with me.”

“I am staying here, at York,” Hvitserk decided and Ubbe was surprised - not to hear that Hvitserk decided to stay but that, for once Hvitserk had not spoken to him about it first. As long as he could remember, it had been Hvitserk and he, attached at the hips, to peas in a pot, never separated. He had even shared Margrethe with him on his wedding night. Hvitserk had always - _always_ \- spoken to him before coming up with a decision. The longest they had ever been apart was when Hvitserk had followed Bjorn to the Mediterranean Sea. “I will defend this city and see to it that Ivar’s strategy and his sacrifice will bear fruit.”

“What about you, Sigurd?” Bjorn asked and suddenly their fourth brother looked uncertain under the scrutiny. Sigurd had always followed his own path. He should have been as close with Ivar as Hvitserk and Ubbe had been but since that had never been the case and since ‘three’s a crowd’, Sigurd had never had a choice but to find his own path through life. Right now, however, he seemed unsure of what to do.

“I think I will return to Kattegat. My place is in Norway.”

“You have been awfully quiet, Ubbe,” Bjorn addressed him then, staring at him from the other side of the altar that they had chosen to use as a table to feast on. 

“I am just surprised how all of you can so easily put Ivar’s fate to the side.”

“What do you mean?” Hvitserk inquired quietly.

“I mean that we can not know for certain what happened to him-”

“Ubbe,” Hvitserk groaned. “Ubbe, he is dead. There is no question about it. He is dead. He should have never left the safety of the tower!”

“But we have not seen him die! We have not seen his body! He is just … gone.”

“It happens,” Bjorn replied quietly but not without sadness in his voice. “I have seen it before - how warriors just vanish on a battlefield, how their bodies are never retrieved. He was probably buried underneath the Saxon soldiers that were killed.”

“How can you be so nonchalant about that?” Ubbe erupted and jumped from his chair. “Our brother is dead! And you think he might have been just thrown into a pit with the Saxons? He deserves a proper funeral! He is our baby brother!”

“There is nothing we can do about that now,” Hvitserk said, his face grim, his jaw set before he emptied his horn and quickly refilled it. “Nothing we can do about that…”

Ubbe knew that his brothers were right. He knew that things like this happened all the time. He knew that it was sometimes impossible to retrieve all the bodies from a battlefield. They had to get rid of the dead before they would start to rot or before rats would start eating away at them - especially in a city like this, caged in with high walls. They didn't know what the Saxons would do next. There was always the chance that they would attack soon again, after all. There was no time to mourn the loss of their brother.

“We should have done more,” He hissed and threw his horn to the side before he turned away from his brothers and left the church to stride out into the cold night air.

**-End of Chapter 1-**


	2. Chapter 2

Pain. That was the first thing he recognized as he woke up. His eyes burned from the light of a candle on a narrow table beside his bed. His head was pounding and an icy draft came through the cracks in the stone walls surrounding him, sending shivers through his entire body. For the longest time, he just stared at the ceiling above him without really understanding what he was looking at. He felt oddly numb, almost as if he was floating but slowly, very slowly, the feelings started to creep back up on him. At first, it had been only his head that was giving him grief but very quickly, his whole body seemed to light up with pain. 

He tried sitting up on the bed he was in but he quickly realized that his body wouldn't comply. He swallowed down the panic rising inside of him at this realization. There was a voice in the back of his head urging him to stay calm. Since he couldn't move much, he looked around the narrow room he was in and quickly realized that he didn't recognize anything. There was a wooden cross right above his bed. The bed itself was squeezed into a corner right underneath a very narrow window. That explained where the cold air was coming in from. Other than the bed, there was nothing else inside the room - it was a cage made out of dark grey stone slabs. He felt like he was suffocating as he lay there.

Something was gnawing at his insides. Something was eating its way through his mind. And then it struck him that not only didn't he know where he was but how he had gotten here in the first place. And, after this realization had struck him like a punch to the gut, it made room for the much more important realization that he could not remember anything at all.

※※※※※※※

Aethelwulf was restless. That had to be expected after the colossal loss he had suffered within the walls of York. His son Aethelred had been wounded in battle and was staving off infection while Queen Judith was at her son’s side applying what she had learned. Prince Alfred too was restless and nervous as he was sitting in the drafty dining hall of the monastery they had managed to take refuge in. Now York was on the other side of the river, a safe distance away for them to recuperate and gather another army. 

Heahmund watched how the king was pacing up and down the length of the hall while he himself remained stationary near the table, his hands clasped in front of his stomach, his sword resting heavily against his side. 

“It was a mistake!” Aethelwulf then erupted and pointed a finger at him like a knife. “It was a mistake to take that heathen from the battlefield! His brothers will come after us!”

“Sire,” He said calmly. “We now have a bargaining chip. They will give up York in exchange for their brother. Do you not realize that the Lord has given us this great opportunity? Do you not realize that the Lord has delivered a son of Ragnar into our hands? And not  _ any  _ son, Sire. You have met him before, have you not? He is the youngest of Ragnar’s sons. The cripple. His brothers will do anything to get their little brother back.”

“They will fight tooth and nail, Bishop!” Aethelwulf spat. “You don't know these men as I know them! They are here now only because my father allowed the cripple to go back home - because he  _ trusted  _ Ragnar Lothbrok! The old fool  _ trusted  _ this demon as he ensured him that his sons’ revenge would only hit Aelle! My father loved Ragnar Lothbrok and this love blinded him, it made him underestimate his wickedness! I will not make the same mistake! You can never trust a single word that those heathens say! Even if we negotiate with them, even if they retreat and leave our country, they will return someday and they will take revenge! The moment you pulled this young man from the battlefield you have marked us all for the slaughter, Bishop Heahmund! It would have been better if you would have killed him then and there! You put a curse on us and you invited the devil into our house!”

“It was never my intention to bring harm to you and your family, Sire, and if I have, I will repent for my sins on the cross. However, I trust that God has sent me to the spot where the young man fell from his chariot not without reason. I trust that it has been God’s will for me to come across him and take him from the battlefield. I do not know yet why but I am certain that everything will be revealed soon.”

It was at that exact moment, that a young monk came stumbling into the room. He looked pale in the dim light of the candles. The flames reflected a fine sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Sire! Bishop! The heathen is awake!”

“Did he say anything?” Aethelwulf asked straight away even as his words sounded like the barking of a bloodhound. Heahmund noticed, to his greatest surprise, that there was fear written clearly all over his face. Alfred too seemed nervous how he stood up from his seat by the table. The young man was in dire need of a bath and sleep - as was Heahmund - but that could wait.

“He asked where he was. He seems confused, Sire.”

Before Aethelwulf could utter another word, Heahmund stepped forward. “I will see to it,” He said. “After all, it is my fault that he is here. The young man does not know me yet, Sire. I think it might be wise to ascertain the situation first before we form a plan.”

Aethelwulf growled but then he waved him away - a gesture that would have earned him Heahmund’s fury if Aethelwulf would not be his king and Heahmund his humble servant. Albeit humble was not a word Heahmund would apply to himself. His prideful nature was only one of his sins before God. Heahmund quickly left the dining hall, following the young monk outside and through the monastery. The monastery was a dark and drafty building located close to the river that made him miss the splendor of Sherbourne. He quickly followed the monk through narrow corridors and up a spiral staircase. This was not the path his men had taken when they arrived here with the cripple, of course, but it was the quickest route now. Not five minutes after he had left Aethelwulf and Alfred behind, Heahmund stood in front of the locked door of the room they had put Ivar into.

“Thank you,” He told the monk with a nod. “Leave me now.”

“But, Your Grace - Isn't it dangerous?”

“He is only a man, my friend. And a crippled one at that. He has nothing inside that room to make a weapon and no way of escaping. I will be fine.”

“Of course,” The monk uttered before bowing hastily and walking away. Like most of the monks inside this building, he seemed spooked just by the presence of this young heathen. Certainly, they had heard the tales about him and his fearsome brothers - just like Heahmund had. Those monks, however, seemed to buy into those horrific tales more than Heahmund did. To them, the sons of Ragnar were nothing but five demons that had escaped Hell and were now plaguing England. God was testing them. That was what those monks were thinking - and surely they were not alone in that either. Heahmund himself, however, did not yet know what to think of those heathens. He had seen them fight, of course, and although he had to admit that they were a force to be reckoned with and an enemy to be taken seriously, he had not seen anything demonic or otherworldly on the battlefield. The only difference between them and their own forces seemed to be that the heathens did not fear death but embraced it instead. They were looking forward to it and thus they fought like rabid animals. 

This young man behind that door, however, he had not seen fight and he knew nothing except the stories he had heard about the crippled son of Ragnar Lothbrok. Judging by what their scouts had told them before their attack on York, it had been Ivar who had killed the priest in York so gruesomely. This young man might have committed monstrous acts and bathed in the blood of his enemies, but Heahmund knew well enough that, at the end of the day, he was still only a man.

Heahmund didn't waste any more time now as he unlocked the door and opened it. He expected the young Viking to slither across the floor and jump at him, tearing into him like the wild beast everyone was taking him for - but nothing like that happened. Instead, he found Ivar sitting upright in his bed, his back leaned against the wood of the headboard, his blankets in his lap, his legs straight underneath them, his head resting against the stone wall behind him, and his gaze tired. He looked not at all feral. Cleaned from the blood and dirt of the battlefield, dressed in a simple white shirt, and with his braids all tousled from sleep, it registered in Heahmund just how young he really was. After all those tales he had heard about him, all the gruesome stories and details of his nefarious deeds, the man before him seemed impossible to be the same man those stories were about. 

“You are awake,” Heahmund greeted him as he closed the door behind him. “How are you feeling?”

“My head hurts,” the young man answered in the English tongue but with a heavy accent. “And I do not know where I am … or how I got here.”

“You hit your head on the battlefield.”

“The battlefield?” Ivar asked, his eyebrows drawing together in confusion. “What battlefield?” The question gave Heahmund pause in his approach of the young man but as he examined the face of the Viking, he could see no ruse in his eyes. Still, he urged himself to be careful. It was as Aethelwulf had said earlier. Those heathens could not be trusted. Before Heahmund could even begin to form an answer, the young man spoke up again. “I am sorry … I can see that you are a man of great importance and I am just a cripple with uncooperative legs … but how could someone like me have been on any battlefield?”

“What do you remember, my friend?”

The young man - although  _ boy  _ seemed the more appropriate word to use here - seemed lost at this question. As if, when he tried looking back at his life, the events of his past were hidden behind a veil and just out of reach for him. Even before Ivar was about to answer, Heahmund already knew what would come out of his mouth. 

“I … I do not know … I can not remember anything.”

“Not even your own name?”

“No.”

He could see the fear in the eyes of the young man. A primal, instinctual kind of fear that could only come with the loss of identity, a loss of self. This young man in front of him was suddenly no longer  _ Ivar the Boneless _ , son of Ragnar Lothbrok, a prince and feared Viking leader. No longer was he the monster parents told their children about at night. He was but a boy lost in a tiny boat at sea, at the mercy of the waves and storms, and unable to save himself from the will and the wrath of the one true God. And while Ivar was at the mercy of God, lost at sea, God had handed Heahmund a dagger. God had handed Heahmund a power over this young man that few would ever be able to wield. 

“I am certain that we will figure it out, my friend,” Heahmund replied calmly. He enjoined himself to be cautious now. This was not the moment to make brash decisions, this was not the moment to tell Ivar anything without talking to his king first. “I will talk to the king. I am sure he can help you in regard to your identity.”

“The king?” He sounded a little alarmed but it seemed no different from the alarm any peasant would feel hearing these words. 

“He fought in the battle you have been found at. You should rest, my friend. Your injuries are serious and perhaps some of your memories will come back if you allow your body to rest. I will send someone with something to eat and drink so that you may regain your strength.”

Ivar nodded but before Heahmund had the chance to leave the young man behind, Ivar spoke up again. “What is your name?”

“I am Heahmund,” He replied. “Bishop of Sherborne.”

※※※※※※※

The farewell seemed bitter despite the warm summer breeze brushing over Hvitserk’s face. He stood at the docks, watching the warriors loading the last crates and supplies onto the ships. Bjorn would leave for the Mediterranean Sea while Ubbe and Sigurd would return home to Kattegat. 

A part of him wanted to follow his brothers. A part of him wanted to follow Bjorn. He was a fighter, after all. A warrior. He was not the type of person who would stay in one place for too long. He would get restless and start fights with everyone. He was not the kind of leader that his older brothers were. Even Ivar had been a better leader than he would ever be. He was just not much of a kingly person and he had never aspired to be any kind of jarl or king either. He was a berserker. He never felt as alive as when he was on the battlefield, bathed in the blood of his enemies. 

As he watched the proceedings, another part of him wished that Ubbe would stay and help him govern York and plan out everything. Ubbe was much better suited for this role. Now, as he stood with his brothers, he realized with a sinking feeling settling in the pit of his stomach, that York was his now, his responsibility and his pride. They would leave him alone to make a name for himself, to make them proud.

Bjorn clasped his shoulder and smiled at him with confidence though it did little to install confidence in Hvitserk. “You are a son of Ragnar Lothbrok,” Bjorn said. “Never forget that. Father would be proud, seeing that you take this responsibility and hold York for us. We will return someday, little brother. And when we do, we will take the rest of this country, a piece at a time. Until we meet again, may the Gods smile upon you.”

Bjorn quickly pulled him into one of his bone-crushing bearhugs before he smacked the side of Hvitserk’s face, stepped away, and walked towards his ship where Halfdan was already waiting. Bjorn had never been a man of many words or big farewells. However, there was yet another reason why Bjorn left his little brothers to themselves too. There was an unspoken agreement between them as brothers. Bjorn was their older brother, of course, they shared the same blood and they loved him dearly - but there was a difference between Bjorn and the four sons of Aslaug. It just was what it was and Bjorn knew and respected that. Maybe it was because they were all so close in age, with Ubbe and Hvitserk being separated only by two years while there was only one year between him and Sigurd and barely a year between Ivar and Sigurd. They had grown up together, as close as brothers could be, even closer, perhaps. 

Ubbe and he had been attached at the hips for as long as he could remember and him leaving with Bjorn to the Mediterranean Sea had been a huge step for Hvitserk to cut the cord linking him forever to his big brother. There was a different kind of understanding, a different kind of love between the four of them compared to what they shared with Bjorn. Sometimes, Hvitserk thought, it felt like they were one being. He could always tell how his brothers were feeling, always knew when his jokes were needed the most. Even Sigurd and Ivar who had always been at each other's throats could fight for days, even punch and kick each other and yet, at the end of the day, their bond was unbreakable and fierce. Sigurd hadn't shown much of it after the battle in which they had lost Ivar, but he had heard him cry on his cot that night, ravished by his anguish about the loss of his baby brother. The Gods knew that Hvitserk felt the same way. 

Ubbe was the first of his two brothers to come forward. He grabbed him by the sides of his face as Hvitserk was used to by now, pulling him closer until their foreheads bumped and their noses almost touched. His own hands quickly found their way to Ubbe’s face too. “You take care of yourself, yes?” Ubbe asked. “You stay safe and not take unnecessary risks, yes? I want you back in one piece when I see you again, Brother.”

“I promise,” Hvitserk huffed with a fond roll of his eyes. “But I will not flee from a battle.”

“I know,” Ubbe sighed. “I don't expect you to. Just … If York can not be held, if you see that it's hopeless, you leave. Keeping York is not worth your life, do you hear me? We have lost a brother already, I do not want to lose another.”

“I promise,” He replied dutifully once more even though he knew that he would do whatever it would take to hold this city after Ivar had died to do so. He would not let his little brother down. Never. Not after he had failed him during the battle.

“Good.” Ubbe let go of him with a sharp nod. “Good.” He stepped back to make room for Sigurd who quickly threw his arms around Hvitserk.

“Just send a messenger and I will return,” Sigurd promised. “And be careful when you negotiate with those Christians. They can not be trusted.”

“Sure,” Hvitserk laughed and smacked Sigurd gently. His heart was broken and he could tell that his brothers felt the same. Maybe that was why they had to leave so quickly. Maybe they had to go so quickly after they had secured York because they could not stand being anywhere near where their little brother had been slain. Their hearts too were broken into two pieces. Strangely enough, as Hvitserk watched their boats depart, both Ubbe and Sigurd becoming smaller and smaller as the wind whisked them away to the shores of their homeland, he did not feel like he was missing a limb. He had always thought that, if one of them would die, he would feel it like he had lost a limb. He had four brothers and he had always thought that he would lose them one by one, and every one would take one of his four limbs with them until he would only remain a head on a useless torso. Yet, he didn't feel anything but numbness as he was being left behind by his family. 

Maybe he should have gone with them. Maybe he should have abandoned York and left with them. They had made their point, shown the Saxons that they could and would overpower them. He could have left York to any willing Viking in his garrison. Yet, it would have felt like a betrayal. Ivar had fought tooth and nail - always. He had fought hard to make Bjorn see reason as it had come to his strategies, he had fought even harder to make Bjorn go with them to York to take the city in the first place, and then he had fought to keep York, to make the Saxons ran into his traps and he had given his life for this victory.

“To Ivar the Boneless, son of Ragnar Lothbrok!” Hvitserk later yelled at the top of his lungs as he raised his horn in front of his men. They had come together in the church to feast together. The smell of roasted meat and herbs hang heavy in the air as the mead poured like water. “He was my little brother - and he was a pain in the ass!” The warriors roared with laughter, slamming their hands on the tables that had been dragged into the church and stomping their boots. “But I loved him all the same! My father did not believe he would survive and yet, if Ragnar could see what Ivar the Boneless has accomplished, he would weep tears of pride! To the cripple that conquered and defended York! May he feast at the side of my father and our Allfather in Valhalla! May the skalds tell the saga of the great Ivar Ragnarsson until the end of times has come to sweep us all away!”

Cheers erupted inside the desecrated church, echoing from the stone walls. The stomping of feet and the clanking of horns and cups sounded like thunder clapping above their heads. This night, Hvitserk tried drinking away his pain before he fell into a restless slumber amidst his fellow soldiers.

※※※※※※※

The monastery was bathed in silence at this hour of the day as the monks were committed to their work and studies. This serene quiet that was so characteristic for churches and monasteries made Bishop Heahmund think of his own time as a young man living amongst the monks of Sherbourne until his education to become a priest had been finished. The memories of that time were not always good but being back inside a monastery like that of his youth filled him with nostalgia. 

They had the calefactory to themselves as they gathered inside the large stone room where a fire was always burning eagerly in the stone fireplace no matter the time of the year. Judith was standing near a window, allowing the report Heahmund had made just minutes ago to sink in and, no doubt, form a plan in her head. Her son Alfred was sitting on a chair, watching his father intently and with unbridled worry. 

“So, the cripple has lost his memories?” Aethelwulf asked but he did not seem gleeful in the slightest. In fact, he seemed rather suspicious, and once more, Heahmund was surprised by how much credit this man gave the heathens, how afraid he seemed to be of the heathens. 

Heahmund had seen them fight in York and still what he had seen in York did not seem to warrant this level of fear. They might be cruel and ruthless but they did not fight with any form of elegance and finesse. They fought like peasants, like farmers, swinging their swords uncoordinated and wild. They were no match for their Saxon forces, for trained knights, in an honest battle on an open field. The only reason why they had been able to be victorious was that they had made the town of York into a maze of traps. They had fought dirty and with treachery. No honest, respectable man, no man with honor would fight like that. 

“Maybe he is just faking it to escape a death sentence.”

“He seemed honest,” Heahmund replied and did not lose his composure even as Aethelwulf dignified his words with a snort. “We have to come up with a plan now, Sire.”

“A plan?” Aethelwulf echoed and raised his eyebrows as if his words were so outlandish he could not quite wrap his head around the statement.

“Yes, Sire. Can you not see the opportunity at our hands?”

“I see that we have a son of Ragnar Lothbrok with us and regardless of whether or not he knows his own identity, we are at risk of his brothers coming after us.”

“My scouts reported that some of the ships have left York and taken with them Bjorn Ironside, Ubbe, and Sigurd Snake in the Eye. They also took King Harald and his brother Halfdan. Only one of Ragnar’s sons remains in York now. That gives us new opportunities to take back York.”

“Husband, Bishop,” Judith, who had remained silent until now, suddenly spoke up. “Maybe we should forgo the route of waging war against those heathens - for now.”

“What? You can not honestly wish to leave York in their hands!”

“I am not saying that we should leave York in their hands - only for a little while longer, my Love. I thought about what the late king would have done with the opportunities at hand and I came to the conclusion that he would use having the son of Ragnar in his hands to his advantage just like the Bishop says.” The late king and his relationship with Aethelwulf’s consort was still a sour topic between the couple, judging by the grimace Aethelwulf pulled at the mention of his late father. He did not say anything to shut her up, though. “However, I also believe that King Ecbert would not have simply exchanged the prince to get York back because that is only a temporary win.”

“What do you suggest then?” Aethelwulf asked with the air of a man who had no interest in hearing the opinion of a woman.

“We have a young man who does not know who he is, who does not know his past or his roots. A young man who also holds great importance to his people. His brothers would not have left England so quickly after their victory if they thought he was still alive. I know these people and if they would believe their brother to be alive, they would fight tooth and nail to get him back. So we can assume that they think he has died during the battle,” Judith said and took a sip from the cup she had been turning over and over between her fingers while she had talked. “Their father had been baptized in Francia before he raided Paris - but it has meant nothing. His brother Rollo has been baptized at the demand of King Aelle - but it has not meant anything. We have a blank canvas with Ivar. A man with no history, no beliefs, no past. What if we send him back as a changed man in Christ? To show his people that it can be achieved, that even a son of Ragnar Lothbrok can find the light in Jesus Christ.”

“You are saying that we should lie to him?” Hehamund asked. “That we should tell him he is a Christian and make him our agent?”

“No,” Judith said. “We make him into one. If we would just tell him, that would not make any difference. One day, he might regain his memories and then our words mean nothing. We have to teach him what it means to be a Christian and what better place would there be for that than this? A monastery.”

“You want to make him a monk?” Aethelwulf asked and this time, Heahmund shared his bewilderment. 

“No,” She huffed. “I want to tell him that he is a monk. He will live here in this monastery, among the monks, learn from them, pray with them, and eventually, he will accept this as his life and even if his memories will return to him, he will choose the right path because he has lived it. And then, regardless of whether or not he regains his memories, we can show the world that a son of Ragnar Lothbrok has found his way to Christ. But for that, we will have to give him a new story first. He will understand and forgive us when the time comes.”

“What if he regains his memories before we can show him the right path?” Heahmund asked. His skin crawled even considering this plan. He knew, however, that he had no way of going against the wishes of his monarchs. If they would decide that this was to be Ivar’s fate, he had to follow.

“Then we can still either negotiate with Hvitserk or execute him, I assume,” Aethelwulf said with a shrug. 

“And if he does not forgive us for our deceit and return to his old ways?”

“Well, as far as I am concerned, we have nothing to lose. It is as my dear husband said, Bishop Heahmund. In bringing this man to this place, you invited the devil into our home and put a curse on us. Now, however, it is on us to be smart about it and use this curse to our advantage. If we succeed, we may convert the whole heathen world. If we don’t … well, they will wage war against us - but they will do that no matter what.”

“He does need a new name then,” Aethelwulf replied sharply. “And we need to keep him hidden here. There can be not a single word getting out of his monastery about a crippled monk - especially not about a crippled monk named Ivar. Not as long as those heathens remain in York.”

“I think I know the right name for him.” Judith’s smile did not quite reach her eyes at those words and she quickly returned her gaze back out of the window as her son stood up from his seat and walked out of the room with a hastily muttered apology. 

**-End of Chapter 2-**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me what you think <3


	3. Chapter 3

Through the narrow window of his room, he could barely see how the sun was rising on the horizon. His night had been restless and short as he had been ripped out of his slumber by the sounds of footfalls on the corridor outside of his room before the sun even rose. The entire night he had felt off but that had to be expected, he assumed. As the new day broke, he lay in his bed and still did not know who he was or how he ended up in this room. It had been his hope that he would remember something - anything - after getting some sleep but that was just not the case. Unsure of what to do with himself, he looked around the room but just like yesterday, it was barren and held nothing except the bed he was lying on, an uncomfortable-looking chair, and a chamber pot he couldn't quite use because it was out of reach. The air that came through the window was warm and smelled of summer. He felt something tugging at his insides, a memory perhaps that he could not yet grasp fully. It was the faraway sound of a door slamming shut, the knowledge that something that he had held dear was gone, the faint laughter of children playing in a creek.

The door to his room swung open after someone had curtly knocked against it from the other side. “Athelstan,” He was greeted. Athelstan … apparently, that was his name. When he had first heard it, he had felt that same tug at his insides. He wouldn't say that he had felt like he remembered that this was his name but more that the name definitely rang a bell. The same man that had taken care of him yesterday walked into the room, clad in black leather armor but without a sword at his hip now. Bishop Heahmund graced him with a smile and Athelstan was persuaded to smile back. “How are you today?”

“Good, Bishop … thank you.”

“And your head?”

“Getting better.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Bishop Heahmund replied with another smile. He seemed honest too. What a weird thought to have. Of course, the bishop meant what he said. Why would he not? “Maybe today I can show you around a little.”

“I would like that, Your Grace.”

“Very well. I will see to it that someone brings you something to eat and then I will come and pick you up. The gardens of this monastery are truly something to behold.” He nodded as a way of confirmation before the bishop left him again. Slowly, he sat up in his bed and stared at his useless legs. He had no instructions and no memories of how he had lived his life with those legs until now but deep down he knew that he could trust his instincts and his body to do the work for him. His instincts too told him to wrap his knees in something soft before he would leave his bed. Without thinking twice about it, he unwrapped the bandages around his head and tore them into two even pieces that he then swiftly wrapped around his knees. Staring at the skin of his legs, brushing his fingers over the endless desert of scars along them, made something stir in the pit of his stomach, the feeling that he should know where all these scars stemmed from. It was like someone was whispering in his ear but he could not understand the language.

About an hour later, he found himself sitting at the side of the Bishop on a stone bench in the gardens of the monastery and watched the monks work in their orchard. The sweet smell of bright red apples hung in the air. A crow was sitting on the roof of a small shed nearby and stared at him. The sight was oddly comforting.

“Your name is Athelstan,” Heahmund spoke up and drew his attention away from the crow and back towards him. “I told you that yesterday. I also told you that I wanted to wait until today before I tell you more about your life so far as it is not a nice story to tell.”

“I have been tortured, haven't I?” He asked and pointed at his legs as a way of explanation for his thoughts. “My legs … they are littered in scars and … I assume they are the result of torture … aren’t they?”

“I can not speak to this,” Heahmund said. “What I can tell you, however, is that you have been living in Norway among the heathens for years against your will. You were taken, like so many other monks before and after you, to be sold as a slave by those people. It is truly a miracle that you are still alive and have returned to England.”

“I was a monk?”

“Yes.”

“But why have I been on the battlefield then?”

“I can only assume that those heathens forced you to fight in their war against us - the reason for that decision, I do not know nor do I hope to ever understand why they would send a crippled monk to the battlefield. It was very lucky, in the end, that you have been found and rescued. Our troops almost killed you, mistaking you for the enemy.”

Something was not right about this story. He could feel it in his bones but he could not quite put his finger on it either. Bishop Heahmund had no reason to lie to him and still, he felt like there was something he was not telling him. His head hurt and he felt nauseous. That was the feeling of being relieved to be back home, he told himself, the joy of having survived the heathens for so long, the gratefulness to God that he had held his hand over him.

“We have to thank the Lord,” Heahmund said. “That he protected you.”

“Yes, Your Grace … But I am afraid that I can not remember … being a monk, or worshipping Christ,” He was ashamed of admitting his short-comings to Heahmund. Surely, he had to think that his mind had gotten corrupted by the heathens and their devil-worship. “When I try to remember … it is like I am staring into complete darkness.”

“Do not worry, Child,” The bishop said. “In time it will all come back to you and until then I think it might be best if you just integrate yourself into the daily life of these monks again. You will see, sooner rather than later, you will remember everything.” Once more Bishop Heahmund graced him with a smile and Athelstan could not help but feel relief at the sight. Having a friendly face right here with him meant more than he could put into words. For some reason, he felt better just because this man who he barely knew was sitting by his side and not letting him drown in this ocean of uncertainty and utter confusion. 

※※※※※※※

It was wrong. Heahmund knew that it was wrong - just like he knew that it was wrong when he would take advantage of one more doe-eyed woman that offered her body to him. It could not be God’s wish to lie to this young man as he did. Surely, God did not wish to have someone follow Him and worship Him who had been lied to just to achieve that. And yet, Heahmund had no way of going against his sovereign. Aethelwulf had agreed to the plan of his wife and Heahmund had to accept that. The least he could do was lend the young Viking a helping hand and proper guidance.

“Please, oh Lord, forgive me,” He said as he knelt in front of the altar on the cold stone slabs of the chapel. If Judith’s plan would be successful, surely God would appreciate his work, surely God would understand and forgive him for his treachery. 

※※※※※※※

He could tell that the monks and Abbot Ealhfrith were not happy to have him under their roof. They deemed him tainted by the heathens that he had been forced to live with and they looked at him full of disdain for his crippled legs. He was a burden for them - and one they had not agreed to carry. Bishop Heahmund could not remain at the monastery forever, he knew that, of course. His duties lay elsewhere - with the king, for now, as it seemed. Yet, he wished that the bishop had stayed. A friendly face often made all the difference in the world and inside that monastery, no one regarded him with any semblance of kindness and warmth. Of course, he knew that life at a monastery was not always easy and that no one owed him any friendliness here. Life as a monk was supposed to be hard. Life as a monk was a life full of abstinence and austerity.

With every callus on his hands, he would get closer to God.

“I was wondering,” He spoke quietly as he was peeling onions in the drafty kitchen with another young monk. He was sitting on the floor while his companion had been allowed to sit on a chair. “The King and his family have been staying here when I first arrived but now they are gone … Where are they? And when will the bishop return?”

“Sshh!” The young man reprimanded him angrily as he pressed his finger to his lips. “We are not supposed to talk during our work! And what kind of questions are those anyway? Why should the bishop return? Because of _you_? His Holiness already burdened himself enough with you, Athelstan. Be thankful for his kindness and now be quiet and work. Abbot Ealhfrith does not react kindly to talking during working hours and I am sure you do not enjoy being flogged.”

He shrunk in on himself instinctively without really knowing why. The image of a man being flogged until his back hung in bloody tatters shot through his mind's eye. He clamped his mouth shut and quickly turned his attention back to his task at hand. Still, knowing that the bishop would probably not return as a silent comfort for him, left him feeling uneasy for some reason. He was a stranger here, in this strange place where nothing seemed familiar to him where every rite seemed foreign. He almost could not believe that he had been a monk once. Nothing he touched, nothing he would say during the mess, nothing of the things he saw, seemed familiar and yet it had to be true. Why would the bishop lie to him? What would he gain from a lie like this? Perhaps, he thought while he numbly continued to peel onions and fighting against the stinging in his eyes, he had been with the heathens for such a long time that he had forgotten the righteous path truly. 

What had they done to him in Norway that had made him forget the love of Jesus Christ and the glory of the one true God? 

He felt sick to his stomach even thinking about that. He was here for no more than five days at this point and already he had been at the receiving end of all kinds of gruesome tales about the heathens. His fellow monks were just as curious in nature as he was and yet it gave them joy to torture him with questions about his time in captivity. Questions that he could not answer while they were feeding him possibilities of what his life had entailed. Stories about human sacrifices of blood-drinking, of fornication between men, of father's that lay with their daughters and of mother's laying with their sons, of cannibalism and all the horrors only Hell could provide. The land where he had been held captive truly had to be a wretched place. Maybe that was why he could not remember anything about it. His own mind was desperately shielding him from the memories of the horrors he had survived. No, certainly it was God who, once more, held His hand over him and shielded him from those memories. God loved him, otherwise, He would not give him a chance like this, a new beginning in peace.

He ought to be grateful for everything, even for the burning pain of the onions as he continued to peel them. Those people had taken him in on their own free will and kindness. He was only a cripple, after all, lower than a slave, a burden to the people keeping him here. He needed to try and make it up to them and prove his worth. This feeling, on the other hand, seemed painfully familiar - this wish to prove his worth, to show that he was more than a defenseless cripple. Heahmund had not said much about his past and he wondered if he would ever know his story. Had he been given to a monastery as a child by his parents? Had he been abandoned at the doorstep of a church? Was he of noble blood or the son of a peasant? It pained him that he would never find out.

Maybe it was not important. He should just live this new life that he had been granted to its fullest and not think of the past any longer. It did not matter. What lay before him mattered. What he would do with his life mattered. That he would be a good Christian, a good servant of God mattered. That was all. 

Later, in the afternoon, he was in the garden assigned to pluck some apples. His stomach was growling by that point. He was hungry like a wolf. There had been no lunch and breakfast had been before dawn. Apparently, he was used to a different kind of routine when it came to meals. Well, as far as he could tell, he was quite muscular for a cripple so he was used to hard labor, and men who worked with their bodies usually ate more than those monks would do. Supper was still hours away and it would consist out of stale bread and onion soup anyway - hardly enough to fill his stomach. One more night of hunger pains lay before him where he would toss and turn in his creaking bed until the bell would ring and he would gather with his fellow monks in the church for morning prayer.

His life was now defined by a tight schedule and although he should be used to it, he found it unfamiliar and difficult to cope with. Even after five days he still had a hard time remembering all of it and an even harder time sticking to it. Never mind the fact that the prayers were foreign to his ears and he could not read the words of the holy book. He had never known that it was possible for someone to forget their own mother tongue and to read the words of it. Then again, maybe he had never been able to read. It was not necessary for a crippled monk of low status as he was. 

On his second day, he had been put in the room the copists were occupying. Someone had handed him a quill and put him to work. He did not need to be able to understand what he was copying - however, his hands were clumsy when it came to handling a quill and they had quickly put him to manual labor instead. 

As he sat in the garden and enjoyed the warmth of the sun shining down on him and the sweet smell of the apples that he was picking from the ground, he tried to recite the schedule over and over in his head.

At six, the bells would ring for morning prayer. At six-thirty, it was time for the Office of Readings, where the monks would pray together and thank the Lord. Then, half an hour of silent contemplation before, at sunrise, they would come together again to praise the Lord for a new day during Lauds. Then, finally, breakfast in complete silence before returning to the church and holding the holy mess. After that, it was time for study or work - work, in Athelstan’s case. He had already discovered that the other monks thought him to be quite dense and since he could not read Latin, he was unable to study even if he would ask to be allowed to. 

Then, at noon, it was time for another round of prayers together in the church. After that, it was back to working for Athelstan and studying for the others. At five, everyone would retreat to a silent chamber with a holy book to read - which meant for Athelstan that he would take his bible and try to make sense of the letters. At six, the community would gather again to talk about the upcoming feasts or of deceased members of the community or just receive news. Thereafter was the time for Vespers and after that, finally, supper where the monks would take turns serving their brothers as a reminder that the essential character of the Christian faith was to be of service to others while one of them would be reading from the bible. Athelstan had not yet had his turn but he was afraid of the day. He would be slithering on the ground like a snake, trying to serve his brothers and even though they would not be allowed to speak, they would find a way to ridicule him. After supper, the day would end with Compline before it would be time to go to bed to rest. So far, Athelstan had dozed off twice during Compline because he had been exhausted from the day.

It felt odd to him that the daily routines of a monastery scared him - that the ridicule scared him. Surely, his time as a slave to the Northmen had been much scarier than that. It was his own fault that he was unable to read Latin and say his prayers properly, after all. It only showed that he had allowed the heathen ways to corrupt his mind and everyone could see that. That was why his fellow brothers in Christo were looking at him with so much disdain and unbridled suspicion. They were afraid that he had brought the devil into their fold and he could not fault them for that fear.

As he picked up another bright red apple from the ground, the smell was overwhelmingly inviting. Quickly, he looked over his shoulder and then across the garden but he was alone except for another monk who had his back to him as he was leaning over the well. No one would be able to see him and catch him in his crime. Quickly, without hesitation, he bit into the forbidden fruit and tore the flesh away from the core. The taste of this simple fruit, fallen from a tree, misshapen and small, was divine to him, and yet he was reminded of the Garden of Eden and of the temptation Eve had been unable to resist. He too had fallen into temptation and suddenly the second bite that he took didn't taste as sweet and divine anymore. In fact, he regretted it the moment he took it.

Suddenly, there was a hand in his hair, pulling his head back. Before he knew what was happening, the apple had been smacked out of his hand and Athelstan joined the fruits on the ground as he was being shoved down, a kick in his stomach sending him down into a world of pain.

“Thief!” The voice of another monk called out loudly. Apparently, he had not been as sneaky as he had thought he was as the monk by the well had caught him in the act. “Thief!”

“No!” He quickly called out as he cowered on the ground like a child. “No! I didn't steal anything!”

“So not only are you a thief, but you are also a liar! Did you not steal this apple?”

“I … I didn't know…”

“Let's hear what Abbot Ealhfrith has to say to this!”

He was pulled before the abbot and the rest of their community within mere minutes and was once more subjected to the scrutiny of his fellow brothers. Their disappointment weighed heavier than his guilt. The abbot’s face was hard and his eyes cold as he regarded Athelstan staring down his crooked nose with unbridled disgust for his actions.

“You have stolen an apple, Brother Winfred said.”

“I was hungry.”

“So are your brothers, Child,” The man scoffed. “And while your brothers suffer their hunger with dignity, you decided you don't need to follow the rules of this convent and betray your brothers in eating this apple - like Eve ate the apple in the garden.”

“I am sorry,” He said quietly. “Truly.”

“Oh, child,” The man’s voice grew softer and he caught himself as hope blossomed in his chest. “I understand your confusion. The past years, living amongst the heathens, have not been easy for you and they poisoned your innocent heart and your mind. You understand that you will need to face punishment, right?” He nodded quickly. “Let your punishment be a lesson and a medicine for your tortured mind, Child.”

“Of course, Father Abbot,” He said quietly. “Whatever you will decide, I will accept gladly to repent for my sins.”

“Since you could not wait for supper, you will forgo supper tonight.” He had expected nothing less, yet the thought made him sick. “Also, you will receive twenty lashes for your thievery.” 

His heart dropped at those words and yet, Athelstan nodded and accepted his punishment. He had committed a crime against his brothers, after all. The punishment was just and he would gladly take it. Maybe then his brothers would accept him a little more as well when they would see that he would take the punishment without another word.

His punishment was to be carried out before Vespers and Supper. He was taken into the courtyard where he was placed in front of a block. His cowl was taken from him, leaving him almost completely naked in front of his brothers, and his hands put on the block to hold onto. He was not afraid of the pain as something in the back of his mind told him that he had had worse and that there was no reason to be afraid.

“You will be reciting the Confiteor three times, Boy. You know that one, don't you?”

He shook his head and the monks around him started whispering to themselves. He felt like he wanted to puke.

“Then I will be reciting it for you and you will repeat after me,” The abbot said. “Don't worry, Child. Soon you will feel God’s warmth and His love again like the rays of the sun.” 

He desperately wanted to believe the man - if it meant he would stop feeling so rotten if it meant he would stop feeling as if someone had torn his heart out of his chest if it meant he would stop feeling like he was drifting on the open ocean in a nutshell, a slave to the waves and the wind.

_“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti,_

“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti,” The first lash came without him having a chance to brave himself. The pain ran through his entire backside and seeped deep into his bones without mercy.

_“beatae Mariae semper Virgini,"_

“beatae Mariae semper Virgini,” Another lash but Athelstan kept himself quiet. Something inside his mind, some primal, hidden voice, told him that he was not allowed to scream, that he could not show his pain, or otherwise he would bring disgrace to his name and not be accepted by Odin. _Odin?_ No. God. His God. The only God, the true God. The father of everything. The Alfather.

 _“beato Michaeli Archangelo,”_ He repeated the words even though he did not understand their meaning and after every sentence, another lash would rip his skin open and make him bleed. _“beato Ioanni Baptistae, sanctis Apostolis Petro et Paulo, omnibus Sanctis, et vobis, fratres - et tibi, pater, quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo et opere: mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Ioannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et vos, fratres - et te, pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum.”_

He was proud as it was over and he had still not screamed or cried out in pain once. He was proud to have remained strong despite the punishment. His father would have been proud of him. What a weird thought that was when he did not even know who his father was - and yet, the thought remained in his head. His back was so hot from the lashes that his own blood felt cool against it as it ran down his body and seeped into the ground that he was kneeling on. He breathed in harshly through his nose, tried to get as much air in as he possibly could as suddenly there was a commotion breaking out around him. He heard the neighing of a horse approaching, hooves vibrating on the ground beneath him before they quickly came to a stop.

“What in God’s name is going on here, Abbot Ealhfrith?”

The bishop. He would recognize Bishop Heahmund’s deep, husky voice in a sea of thousands. A part of him felt relief wash over him and immediately he was struck down by guilt once again. There was, after all, no reason why he should feel relieved that the good bishop was here now and bore witness to his punishment. If anything, he should be ashamed that Heahmund would hear of his crime. 

“Our dear crippled brother stole an apple today,” The abbot said and Athelstan didn't dare to turn his head to look at Heahmund’s reaction. Certainly, he was angry now after he had advocated for him to be accepted into this monastery. His words, however, surprised Athelstan.

“That is hardly reason enough to flog that young man! It would have sufficed to make him go hungry for a day. Your punishment, Abbot Ealhfrith, was too strict for a first offense.”

“It has always been my opinion that it is of the utmost importance to dish out draconic punishments - even at the first offense so that the culprit might not be tempted to offend again in the future. I can assure you, that the cripple will never dare to steal or eat outside of mealtimes.”

“Also, he will be of little use to you in the next couple of days because he will not be able to move around much or work hard,” Heahmund replied sharply. His words were like the lashing of a whip themselves and this time, Abbot Ealhfrith was the recipient of the lashes. “I am appalled by your judgment, Father Abbot. I entrusted you with the care of this young man who has been through hellish torments at the hands of the heathens and yet, instead of letting leniency prevail, you decided to inflict further torment. I expected you to show this lost lamb the right path with kindness and love to remind him of the love of Jesus Christ.”

“Jesus Christ suffered for our sins. We find salvation and God’s loving embrace in suffering.”

“Draw a bath for our young friend,” Heahmund ordered as he turned to no one in particular. Immediately one of the younger monks hurried to get inside, another of his brothers quick to follow him. “I will be taking care of his injuries personally.”

“But, Bishop Heahmund-”

“Jesus Christ suffered for our sins, Father Abbot, that much is true. It is also true that Jesus Christ showed kindness and mercy to those that were more unfortunate than he. Christ reminds us to be subservient to the weak, to the _crippled_ , to the sick, and the old. It is true that pride may very well be my greatest sin, Father Abbot, but I am not too proud to be subservient to my crippled brother.”

He was in awe of the bishop and how he wielded his words like the sword he would carry at his hip. The monks too looked at him in awe and the abbot did not dare to speak against his judgment. He did not even need to raise his voice like so many lesser men would do to instill respect and fear into others. His voice always remained calm and steady and yet his tone was sharp as the sound of the whip as it had shot through the air and slammed into his skin. Someone was handing him his cowl and as he wanted to put it on, Heahmund stopped him and took it from him. The bishop did not say anything else as he picked him up and threw him over his shoulder like a sack of onions. He was surprised that the bishop would carry him inside on his own instead of making him crawl or telling someone else to take care of him. Once more it only showed how kind and gracious Bishop Heahmund truly was. 

Heahmund’s strong legs carried him into the shadow of the monastery and up the spiral staircase that was leading towards his room. It would be easier for him to stay on the first floor but the abbot didn't want to hear any of his suggestions. Instead, he would reprimand him for being late to the morning prayers. By now, after five days of this, he had made it a habit to rise even earlier to make his way to the church in time. That, however, meant also that he was not only always hungry but tired as well.

“How are you faring, my friend?” Heahmund asked as they reached his chamber where one of the monks was just setting up a wooden bathtub and filling it with warm water. He had expected to be taking a bath in the kitchen again, but apparently whatever Bishop Heahmund wanted would be achieved.

“I am well, Bishop Heahmund.” He replied quickly, despite the pain he was in. His back was on fire and he could feel the blood drying against his skin. He could already tell that he would be in agony for days, if not longer. And yet, he believed that Abbot Ealhfrith’s intentions were pure. Why would he believe they were not, after all? Abbot Ealhfrith only desired to bring him closer to God. Like Jesus Christ had suffered for the sins of mankind, so Aethelstan would suffer and he would do so with a smile on his face.

“And your memories?”

“Still gone,” He muttered and as Heahmund put him down again, he slowly pulled himself onto a stool. His entire body was in a world of agony as he moved to pull himself onto that little footstool. It seemed a monumental task all of a sudden. The other monk then left the room and closed the door quickly.

“I can tell that there is something that bothers you, Athelstan,” Bishop Heahmund addressed him calmly. “Tell me about it.”

For a long moment, he held the bishop’s gaze. It was hard not to. Usually, he avoided looking his fellow monks or Abbot Ealhfrith in the eyes. There was this primal fear lingering inside of him that they might lash out at him if he would meet their eyes. That fear, of course, was completely unfounded and he should be punished for having it as it meant that he distrusted his peers and insinuated that his peers might have improper and ungodly thoughts. He could not help it, however. That fear was there, always in the back of his mind. He knew that he was the lowest in the food chain, he knew that he had to avoid attracting their wrath at all costs. With Bishop Heahmund it was different, though. From the first moment, he had been unable to not meet his eyes when they would speak. When he would look at Heahmund he felt like they were meeting on equal grounds and that in and of itself should be considered a crime, of course, for how could someone like him ever assume to be of equal footing than someone like Bishop Heahmund of Sherborne? No, he thought, it only spoke to Heahmund’s good character and the purity of his heart that he made Athelstan feel like they were equals. 

At last, he broke the eye contact, if only for a second or two to fiddle with his thumbs. “It is just … I am angry, Bishop Heahmund,” He finally confessed. Anger in and of itself was a sin. He had no reason to be angry, not when God held His hand over him. It spoke of the poor state of his soul that he was so angry all the time. He felt, however, that he could speak openly to Heahmund.

“Angry?”

“Yes. Always. I know, of course, that anger is a sin and I try not to be angry but … I can not do it. I am afraid that God has forsaken me.” Heahmund stopped in his tracks for a moment and took in his appearance - how he sat there only in his undergarment on the footstool. He must look terrible, but Heahmund smiled softly before he grabbed a rag and dunked it in the water of the bucket that stood by next to the tub.

“God is with you, my friend,” Heahmund said before he walked around him and gently started dabbing at the wounds on his back to clean them first before he would help Athelstan into the tub. It stung but still, he made no sound. “Never doubt that. He watches over you right now and holds His hand over you. How else would you have found your way home and survived for as long as you did?”

“You are right…” He murmured quietly as the bishop worked diligently on his back. Surely, those lashings would leave scars. A reminder of his transgressions. “But I think that I am not welcome here, Bishop.”

“Why do you think that?”

“I am of little help,” He said quietly, followed by a small shrug that made him wince. “I am a cripple and it seems I can do nothing right in the eyes of Abbot Ealhfrith. Of course, I understand that it must be frustrating for him to shelter someone who can not even read the bible or recite prayers properly and who needs help with so many things.”

“It is our duty as God’s tools on earth to help those who are less fortunate, my friend. I am sure Abbot Ealhfrith does not mind helping you,” Heahmund replied as he finished the job. He then helped Athelstan out of his loincloth before he aided him in getting into the tub. It should feel weird to be naked in front of the bishop but strangely enough, it did not. It was almost familiar. Maybe he had had brothers in his old life. Or maybe he was just so used to it because the heathens were much more unrestrained with their nudity - at least according to the tales he had been fed so far. “I did not know that you can not read,” Heahmund then said and Athelstan felt how his ears turned pink.

“But shouldn't I be able to? When I was a monk … before I was taken … I should have learned it, right?”

“Maybe your time with the Vikings erased this skill from your memory. I will help you regain it, don't worry.”

He sunk back into the warm water with a small sigh and looked up at the bishop again. The warm water was like flames licking at his abused flesh. “It is so strange … all of this … being here. I feel like I should recognize so many things but I do not. Even this language seems strange to me sometimes. Like … wearing a coat that does not quite fit.”

“You spoke the tongue of the Northmen for such a long time that it feels like it is more your mother tongue than English is. You are young, my friend. Probably not older than seventeen winters. When you were captured, you couldn't have been more than a child, barely old enough to be living at the monastery you have been taken from.” Heahmund sighed. “Maybe it is cruel to have pulled you away from the battlefield, away from the heathens you have been living with. For all we know, you could have felt a kinship with them.”

“No!” He immediately replied. “No, that can not be true, Bishop Heahmund! I was forced to partake in that war.”

Heahmund nodded with a small smile that was tugging on his lips. “Surely, you are right, my friend.”

**-End of Chapter 3-**


	4. Chapter 4

Bishop Heahmund’s favorite. That was the new nickname that he had earned amongst his fellow monks. The bishop had left again after the day of his punishment but he had left strict instructions for Abbot Ealhfrith of how to treat him with the promise to return soon to see if his demands had been fulfilled. It was not like he had been treated like a dog before but he had certainly not been treated the same as the other monks in the convent - neither by the abbot nor by the other monks. 

After Heahmund’s demands had been heard, Athelstan had gotten a seat at the table like everyone else and a room on the first floor so that he would have an easier time maneuvering around. He had even been given a pair of breeches to wear underneath his cloak and leather straps to tie his legs together. That change, however, did not mean that the other monks would be any friendlier or kinder to him. If anything, it made everyone more hostile towards him. He heard them talking behind his back sometimes but he decided to ignore it, even as it made the anger flare up inside of him.

Anger was a sin, he reminded himself day in and day out. He had no reason to be angry. He ought to be grateful. 

“It is like there is a wild animal inside of me,” He confessed silently as he sat in the library of the monastery with Bishop Heahmund one day. They were alone and that allowed Athelstan to talk to the man as Heahmund sat next to him at the table and explained the letters of the Latin alphabet to him. “It is always there, roaring inside of me, wild and untamed and … angry. I tried praying it away, Bishop, really I did. But it is of no use. It only seems to get louder and angrier the more I try.”

“I know that feeling,” The bishop replied calmly. “I have it all the time when I am on the battlefield. A man of the cloth is not supposed to feel that way but in my chest beat two hearts. I am a cleric but I am also a warrior and both sides of me are constantly at war with one another.”

“But I am not a warrior, Bishop Heahmund,” He scoffed. “I am a cripple.”

“A cripple with the heart of a warrior, perhaps.”

“Which only heightens my plight, does it not? If I would not be a cripple, I might have become a warrior priest like you. But now my own body holds me back and serves as my greatest enemy. A greater enemy even than the heathens that are ravaging our beautiful land. Is it true that a part of their army has left England?”

“It is,” Heahmund said. “But a huge chunk of them remained in York under the command of one of their leaders. Our dear king is desperate to find a way to take York back but he has been demoralized after our last defeat.”

“York is surrounded by walls, is it not?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Then maybe he should besiege them, starve them out.”

“Starve them out?”

“Yes,” He replied. “Their warriors will need to leave town to hunt for food since there are no merchants and farmers coming into York anytime soon to sell their goods to the heathens. He should wait for that and then ambush their hunters, cut off their supplies completely. They will give up in a matter of weeks.”

“I will tell the king about your idea,” Heahmund smiled. There was a glint in his eyes, joy perhaps, but he couldn't quite put his finger on what the bishop might truly think of his idea. He probably thought it to be dumb. After all, he was not a very smart man. He was a cripple who could not even read the bible or recite prayers properly.

※※※※※※※

Bishop Heahmund of Sherborne had so often been on the battlefield that being in a war camp felt like home to him. A thick forest lay between the camp and the town of York where the heathens were living like the animals that they were. The hustle and bustle of camp lulled him into a sense of security that he rarely ever felt. Right after his return from the monastery, he had been summoned by Aethelwulf and met him and his family inside the large tent in the center of camp. Aethelred, who was still battling with his injuries from the last battle, sat on a camp bed, pale and with a look of uncertainty on his face. His little brother sat close by at a narrow table. playing chess against himself. The king and his queen, however, regarded him with their utmost attention as Heahmund finished his report about Ivar.

“Do you trust this man?” Aethelwulf asked with unbridled and unveiled disgust for the cripple. “He is a son of Ragnar Lothbrok! He is probably setting a trap for us.”

“He does not know that he is a heathen,” Heahmund argued back. “I have spent enough time with him to attest to that. He has no memory of his past and his words were true and honest. My King, I don't mean any disrespect, but I do think that you have not yet realized the advantage we have over the heathens. Until now, we did not know who of the brothers came up with their battle plans - but now we know and we have him. The young man does not even recognize his own brilliant mind but he will be a fountain of ideas in the future.”

“You are giving him too much credit, Bishop.”

“I don't think he does,” Queen Judith replied quietly. “If he is anything like his father, that is. Ragnar Lothbrok was a genius strategist too, after all. I do not know much about the brothers Ubbe, Sigurd, and Hvitserk, but Bjorn Ironside has not his father’s strategic mind. From the tales I have heard about him, he is restless, with a curious mind like his father and more interested in fame and glory than waging war against people of other faiths. It seems likely that the one with the most brilliant mind of those five brothers might just be a cripple. Ragnar himself has brought him along to England. Back then I did not understand it why he would bring a cripple on such a dangerous journey but now I am convinced he did it so that Prince Ivar would be able to see the land and learn.”

“So we have to be extra careful,” Aethelred replied. “He might as well just play us for fools. If he has that great of a mind, who’s to say that he is not tricking us right now?”

“I admit that could be the case, my prince,” Heahmund replied. “I suggest that perhaps someone else will visit the monastery and have a conversation with the young man. Someone who has spent time with him before.”

All eyes quickly moved to Alfred who, absentmindedly moved a white chess piece between his fingers. A king, if Heahmund was correct. Alfred seemed uncertain at first but then he nodded sharply. “I’ll do it,” He said. “If I am honest, I am looking forward to it.”

※※※※※※※

The monastery was in uproar the next time that Bishop Heahmund came to visit. The uproar, however, was not about the bishop himself, as he quickly came to find out, but about the man accompanying him - even though the word _man_ seemed a bit much as the person in his company had barely outgrown his childhood and was probably barely the same age as Athelstan was. As he first caught sight of Prince Alfred of Wessex, he could not quite shake the feeling that he had met him before. A faint memory of a chessboard resurfaced in his mind, barely bright enough to catch it, the memory of a chess piece digging into his palm.

There was a kindness in the eyes of the young prince as he first caught a glimpse of him. They had all gathered outside in the yard after a monk had alerted them all of the arrival of Heahmund and the prince minutes earlier. Athelstan expected the prince to visit the monastery, maybe pray with the abbot since, by all reports, the prince seemed to be a very pious man but he surprised everyone as he got off his horse, walked with the bishop across the yard, and stopped in front of the crippled monk on the ground. If the situation would not be so absurd, Athelstan would have all but assumed that the prince had come here for him - so determined seemed Prince Alfred’s decision to talk to him.

“Good Day, my friend,” Prince Alfred greeted. He knew, of course, that it would be customary to bow in front of the prince but since he was already on the ground, he quickly bowed his head instead. Overwhelmed by the fact that the prince was even acknowledging his existence, he didn't quite manage to get out any words. The prince’s next words, however, explained his decision to talk to a cripple. “Our friend Bishop Heahmund told me about your recovery. I was there myself at York and wanted to visit you and see for myself how you are faring. The bishop told me your name was Athelstan?”

“Yes … My Prince,” He muttered quietly but the smile on Bishop Heahmund’s face encouraged him. “I am doing well - better each day. Everyone here is taking good care of me. Thank you for your concern.”

“I heard the gardens of this monastery are very beautiful,” Alfred then said as he shortly looked at Heahmund before returning his attention back to Ivar. “Would you mind showing me around?”

“Me?”

“Indeed.”

Concerned he looked at the abbot but the man forced a tight-lipped smile onto his face and nodded. “I am certain Brother Athelstan will gladly show you to the gardens, Prince Alfred,” Abbot Ealhfrith said.

“Well then … Follow me, Prince Alfred,” He said and couldn't quite hide his nervousness. “I might be a little slow, though.”

“That's alright,” Alfred chuckled. “I am not in a hurry.”

Despite his warning to Prince Alfred, it didn't take long until they had reached the gardens and sat down on a bench overlooking the orchard where he often worked - even after the apple incident. He was still a little intimidated by the presence of the prince as they sat on the bench like old friends. After all, who was he to sit with someone from the royal family like this? Truly, Alfred had to be a pious and kind man to waste his time on a cripple like him. 

“It really is beautiful here,” Alfred commented on the sight with a smile. “Bishop Heahmund said you came up with the idea to lay siege to York.”

He was taken aback by that comment, surprised that Bishop Heahmund had even truly considered his idea - nevermind the fact that he had apparently passed his idea on to the king without taking the credit for it. Not that he would have ever imagined the bishop to do something like that. He was a man of honor, after all.

“Yes, Prince Alfred,” He replied after a moment of hesitation. “I realize that it is not a smart idea but, considering the situation…”

“I think the idea is very smart,” Alfred cut him off gently. “And so did my father. Right now he is gathering his troops to follow your plan of laying siege to York and taking out their hunters.”

“Is that true?”

“It is,” Alfred smiled. “Is it true that you have lost all memories of your life amongst the heathens?”

“Yes, Prince Alfred,” He said quietly and lowered his gaze onto his feet. “I don’t even know if I have been born this way or been made into a cripple by them. Sometimes it is like someone is whispering into my ear and I feel like I have seen or heard something before but those memories remain firmly behind an impenetrable veil.”

“You have my deepest sympathy, even though I can not possibly fathom your plight.”

“My prince, forgive me this indiscretion but … have we met before?” He then asked as he looked at the other young man again. He could see the surprise on Alfred’s face at his question. “I feel like we have met before.”

“Not that I would remember,” Alfred said and looked to the side swiftly. “Maybe you saw me during the battle of York. My father, the king, brought me and my older brother Aethelred along.”

“Yes … Maybe that is it,” He sighed. “Sometimes I feel like I had brothers too. It is a feeling that I can not quite describe, however. It is like someone is tugging at my insides, telling me that there is someone out there waiting for my return to them.”

For a short moment, barely long enough to fully notice it, Alfred’s face seemed alarmed but then another smile tugged at his lips, albeit it looking a little nervous. He was probably just imagining things. Why would the prince have any reason to be nervous, after all? To his even bigger surprise, Alfred took his hand and gave it a small squeeze.

“If you have brothers waiting for you out there, I am certain that you will be reunited with them eventually. Regardless, I will pray for you so that you will be reunited with your family one day.”

※※※※※※※

“It is cruel, father,” Alfred said as he sat down with his father after his and Heahmund’s return to camp. “I visited Prince Ivar today and I think we should return him to his brother. Exchange him for the town of York, if you must but keeping him in our hands and lying to him, telling him that he is someone that he is not, making him believe a lie about his own life, is cruel and unjust.”

“Cruel?” Aethelwulf echoed. “Unjust? He is our _enemy_ , Son.”

“I know that, Father, However, he is still a human being. He is a son, a brother, an uncle. He is loved by his family and he loves them. How would you feel about it if the tables were turned? Would you not think it cruel if Aethelred or I would be in Ivar’s shoes?”

“That would be different.”

“Why? Because we are your sons?”

“No, because our enemy is incapable of love, Alfred,” Aethelwulf spat. “To love someone you need a soul. And those heathens are a bunch of soulless, heartless wildlings. They don't care about anything but bloodshed and glory. They talk about family and love and kinship but it's just words, Alfred. Don't allow yourself to be lured by them.”

“Bishop Heahmund,” Alfred surprised him as he addressed him with sharp eyes and red cheeks. “You have spent more time with Prince Ivar than any of us so far. What do you think about the situation? Don't you think that it is cruel to make him live a lie?”

“I believe that my King made the right decision,” Heahmund said even though he couldn't shake the image of Ivar out of his mind how he had been forced to his knees and flogged in front of gawking monks. He would never be able to quite shake the fury from his mind at the way Ivar was being treated at this monastery. Every time he had visited so far he had noticed something else that was not right with their treatment of Ivar. Clearly, the monks showed great disdain for their new crippled brother. That had to have been expected, of course. “And although it might be cruel, I am certain that he will thank us in time. He undergoes quite the rapid change in the care of those monks, I must say, and he learns quickly. I am sure he will be a devout member of the holy roman church in little more than a couple of months. And if that is the case, all the hardships he needs to undergo will have been worth it.”

Later, as he sat near the fire in the center of the camp, Prince Alfred joined him and handed him a cup of ale. The night hung low above their heads. Not long now and the first autumn storms world rip at their clothes and hairs. 

“I could tell earlier that you were on my side in the argument, Bishop,” Alfred addressed him without any false pretenses. “You too think that it is cruel to keep the prince in the dark.”

“Even if I do, my Prince, that will not change anything about my stance on the matter. I must do what my king orders me to do. And if my king decides that it is right what we do then I have no authority to argue.”

“The other monks and the abbot … they are unkind to Ivar, are they not? I saw it in their faces when I addressed him in front of all of them. I am certain that my visit with him will cause him great misery tonight.”

Heahmund took a sip from his ale. “I’m afraid you are right, Prince Alfred.”

“Is that so?”

“During my own education as a young man, there was one thing I quickly learned: Men in power are seldom kind and those men who know that they have power over the less fortunate and think that they are always right lack this quality altogether. Abbot Ealhfrith, I’m afraid, is of the latter category.”

“Please correct me if I am wrong, Bishop Heahmund, but I think that you are quite fond of Prince Ivar, isn't that true?”

He had met Alfred for the first time before the battle of York. However, in this short amount of time, Heahmund had been quick to realize that Alfred was open and honest in most things. He did not like to lie or omit things. And, which was a quality Heahmund greatly valued, he usually cut straight to the chase. 

“He is, at the end of the day, a child of God, Prince Alfred. And I am fond of all of God's children.”

“Of all of them?”

“At least I try to be, my Prince. However, as much as I am a man of God, I am also just a man with all the flaws and shortcomings that God has burdened us with in His great wisdom.”

※※※※※※※

The burden of leadership was a hard one to carry for someone like Hvitserk who had never been put into this position before and never fathomed himself capable of it before either. His baby brother would find it hilarious and not waste a second to barrage him with jokes at Hvitserk’s expense.

“I know what you would say now, Ivar,” Hvitserk muttered quietly inside the silence of his chamber where no one could judge him for talking to himself. “You would have seen that coming from a mile away, wouldn't you? But what am I supposed to do now, huh, Brother? If you are so smart, surely you can tell me. Our hunters did not return today. Soon we will have no more food and the town is ravaged by pestilence. What are we going to do now? We need to do _something_. The Saxons are in their own country where they can easily find new recruits. They will get stronger and stronger every day while we are only going to get weaker.”

He could almost hear him make a joke about him and his plight, heard him laugh and snicker inside his head. It was that same high-pitched laugh that he only made when he had fun at someone else's expense, which, considering Ivar’s cruel disposition, was quite often the case. 

“Was my decision to stay here right, Ivar?” He sighed. “I wish you were here to argue with me. I wish you were here to give me advice. I would never tell this to your face, of course, little brother, because I would not want to inflate your ego even further but your plans have a penchant for genius at times. Even though I must admit, I would have killed you myself if you would have said one more word about the genius of the Romans,” He laughed at last. “I miss you. However, I think now might be the time to negotiate with the Saxons. I’m sure that Ubbe would agree with me on that while you most certainly wouldn't. But if it is for the survival of our people, I will do what I have to.”

※※※※※※※

It was no surprise that his brothers were not happy about the fact that the prince hat decided to single him out and grant him, a cripple, his divine attention. He had expected being regarded with even more anger and vitriol than before. He had not expected, however, that he would get punished for it. After all, it was not his fault that Alfred had asked him to show him around, was it? He knew that he had done nothing to deserve this punishment and still he was willing to take it if it meant his brothers in Christo would finally see him as an equal - or, if not as an equal, would start to tolerate him at least. He knew that, as a cripple, it was the least he could hope for anyway. He was lucky to have a room with a bed and not be forced to sleep in the kitchen or the stables.

He should be thankful for the abbot’s kindness and yet, all he could find within him was cold fury as he sat inside the small room that was hardly any bigger than a broom closet would be. It was pitch-black around him but at least he was not being flogged again. Still, the punishment was unjust. It was not like Athelstan had begged for the attention the prince had granted him. It was not his fault and yet he got punished as if he had broken yet another rule. Should he have perhaps denied the prince’s request? Then again, surely Abbot Ealhfrith would have punished him then too. Sometimes he felt like the abbot was looking for reasons to punish him whether or not he deserved it. Of course, even this thought alone would justify another punishment, for the abbot’s decisions and judgments were wise. Who was he to argue with him? The fact that he had such ill thoughts proved Abbott Ealhfrith’s point! He could only hope to earn his forgiveness.

However, he could not quite shake off that small, quiet voice in the back of his mind that told him that he should not beg for forgiveness, that voice that kept whispering to him that soon it would be Abbot Ealhfrith who would be begging him for forgiveness instead. Maybe the heathens’ effect on his mind was more powerful than he would have ever imagined if such evil thoughts would corrupt his mind even now after he had forgotten his life among them. 

He seemed to dwell in darkness for an eternity until his cell was opened again and he was allowed a glimpse of light - even if it came only from the candles that were lighting the corridor outside of the small room he had been locked in. As he saw the grim faces of two other monks that had come to get him, he held no illusion over escaping another punishment any longer as it almost seemed as if Abbot Ealhfrith derived much joy from punishing him. 

“Abbot Ealhfrith wants to see you, brother Athelstan,” One of them, Brother Siegfrith said. “He waits for you in the calefactory.”

Athelstan nodded quickly and started crawling as quickly as he could down the corridor. He didn't want to make the abbot wait for him and possibly further his anger in response. Abbot Ealhfrith hated waiting. The crawl towards the calefactory was a long one from the room where he had been locked up. He needed to go all the way through the kitchen and dining room, cross the cloister, go past the library, and then he finally reached the calefactory. 

To his surprise, the abbot was not alone inside the great room where a fire always burned in the stone-carved fireplace at the far wall of the room to keep it nice and cozy even throughout the summer months. Keeping the fires going in a place like this was an absolute necessity, Athelstan had come to learn from the other monks, even if outside it was pleasantly warm. Soon the first autumn storms would ravage the land again, after all, and then this building would be a drafty, unpleasant nightmare - even more so when the rain season would hit in a couple of weeks. Around the abbot, the other monks had gathered. Some were looking a little nervous, others excited for what was about to come. This excitement scared Athelstan. It rarely was a sign of something good to come.

“You wanted to see me, Father Abbot.”

“I hope your punishment managed to clear your head and freed you from your pride.”

“Yes, Father Abbot.”

“You say that, Brother Athelstan, but I do not believe that you even understood why you have been punished in the first place.”

“Certainly, I must have said something that has angered Prince Alfred when he was in my company. The prince is too polite and kind to have said something to me about his disdain, however. Whatever I said must have been hurtful enough that Prince Alfred deemed it necessary to talk to you, Father Abbot. I am very sorry for the hurt I caused.”

“Ah,” The abbot sighed. “And there we have it right here, brothers. The reason for his punishment - told, yet not understood.”

“I’m sorry, Father Abbot, I do not know what you mean.”

“And that is exactly the problem.” His head hurt. His stomach was in knots. That voice in his ear was yelling now. “Your misdeed was not what you may have said to Prince Alfred, Boy! Your misdeed lies in the _pride_ you show!”

“I am not a prideful man, Father Abbot.”

“Oh, but you have to be when you believe that something a _cripple_ like you said to someone like Prince Alfred could have had any kind of effect on the prince.” Confusion was coloring his mind and it must be showing on his face for the abbot’s next words cut him like a knife. “You have been prideful when you accepted the prince’s request of being shown around by a cripple! You brought great shame to all of us with this action!”

“But Prince Alfred-”

“It would have been your duty to direct the prince’s attention to one of your more worthy brothers!” His yell echoed from the stone walls. “The prince wanted to show his kind heart when he turned his attention to you, boy! You have to be either very naive or delusional to think that the prince wanted _you_ to show him around! Do you not realize, Child, that you are worth less than the mud under the prince’s boots?”

He paused as Athelstan felt tears burning in his eyes. 

“I think it is time to teach you a lesson in humility, dear child.” He then said with the sigh of a father who was about to hit his misbehaving child with a belt while acting as if the deed would hurt him more than the child. 

As if summoned by a secret silent command, Athelstan was suddenly grabbed under the arms by two of his brothers. He didn't fight or struggle, of course. After all, he was certain that no harm would come to him from their hands. He was swiftly carried closer towards the fireplace where he was put down on the ground again only for the same two monks to strip him of his cowl. Only as he was pushed onto his back on the cold stone floor did he start to struggle. He couldn't see what was happening around him as the other monks were blocking his view while he was being held down. Fear closed around his heart like a fist. When the abbot finally came back into sight again, he was holding a branding iron in the form of a glowing hot cross. He wanted to shout but before he had the chance, the iron was pressed into his chest, right above his heart. A scream tore from his throat as his skin was burned and the stench filled his nostrils.

Suddenly, a flash of a different place, a different, animalistic scream, and burning flesh shot through his mind - a man leaned over a block of wood, his arms spread to his sides, nails digging through meaty hands into the wood beneath them, a figure standing behind the man, a glowing hot knife in their hands. He could see the agony in the man’s dark eyes, he could smell his burning flesh as the knife cut open his back along his spine. He stared into his soul as the man drew his last breath and as the light left his eyes.

 _King Aelle will not enter Valhalla_ , the voice whispered into his ear. _He screamed too much._

**-End of Chapter 4-**


	5. Chapter 5

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa,” The words escaped his lips like a song that was not meant to be heard by anyone but himself and God, much like the whistling of the whip as it shot through the air and landed hard against his skin. “Ideo precor beatam Mariam semper Virginem, beatum Michaelem Archangelum, beatum Ioannem Baptistam, sanctos Apostolos Petrum et Paulum, omnes Sanctos, et vos, fratres - et te, pater, orare pro me ad Dominum Deum nostrum.”

And yet, no matter how long he sat on the cold hard ground, no matter how often he hit himself with the whip and tore his own skin further and further to shreds, the voice in his ears never stopped talking to him. _Your enemies will always underestimate you. You need to make them pay for it._

“Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa...”

_Be ruthless._

※※※※※※※

His boots sank deeply into the mud as he strode through the camp. Rain was pouring down mercilessly and soaked him from head to toe. The first harbingers of the coming autumn storms. The weather so far up north was harsher than what he was used to in Sherborne but despite the cold wind and the heavy rain that had started in the early morning hours and seemed determined to continue all throughout the day, autumn was thankfully still far away. The smell of onion soup wafted through the camp and he heard the soldiers chatter as they sat in the safety of their tents and canopies. Only a few brave souls were training in the far back of the camp where they were keeping empty cages for the Northmen they might just be able to catch and take prisoners during their patrols through the woods near York. 

“Hvitserk wants to negotiate,” Aethelwulf addressed him without wasting a second as Bishop Heahmund of Sherborne stepped into the big tent in the center of the camp. He found the king leaning over the war table in the center of the tent, a map of York and the surrounding woodlands underneath his fingertips. The situation inside of York should have become more and more dire with each passing day now as the Northmen were unable to feed themselves.

“Is that so?” Heahmund replied with raised brows and stopped in his tracks near the entry before adopting a firm stance on the other side of the table, his feet hip-width apart, his hands folded in front of his stomach, the weight of his sword securely against his hip. “Then the young man is stupider than I would have thought he is. To negotiate, you would expect both parties to bring something to the table, after all. Hvitserk has nothing to offer, Sire, and he knows that. He is merely trying to save his skin.”

“Or the lives of his men,” Judith offered kindly from where she was sitting on a divan to the side. Her clever eyes flashing with silent admiration. Admiration for who, however, was the real question here. “I am certain that he does not wish his men to die under his command - at least not such an unworthy death. A good death is all those Northmen really care about. They want to go to Valhalla when they die and they can not do that when they die of starvation or plague.”

“Perhaps he wants to offer us another fight then,” Aethelwulf laughed. “To fight over York. However, if he is anything like his brothers, we can not trust him. I am tempted to deny his request for negotiation. The time for negotiations is over.”

“I think you make a mistake,” Heahmund replied cautiously and anger flashed in Aethelwulf’s eyes at the insinuation. He had always been a loose cannon but even more so now that he was king. “Perhaps it is not his wish to fight _for_ or _over_ York. The sons of Ragnar came to England to avenge their father and take back the land that the late King Ecbert once gave them and then took from them. Perhaps that is what Hvitserk wants to negotiate about. Maybe he just desires a piece of land to settle on in exchange for York.”

“As you so eloquently put before, Bishop Heahmund, both parties have to bring something to the table in order to negotiate. He has York, yes, but for how much longer? He will starve within those walls within weeks together with his men. He has _nothing_ to offer and there is no reason why I should hand him an olive branch.”

“Bishop Heahmund,” Judith turned to him with bright eyes that reminded him entirely too much of the Widow Ordlaf. There was danger lurking in these dark eyes - the kind of danger only few men would be wise to avoid and even fewer would be able to recognize. “Tell me, how is young Ivar faring?”

“He is making progress,” Heahmund replied dutifully, even though the sudden change in topic was almost startling. He did his best to not let his surprise show, however. “He is a quick learner and has a very flexible mind. It took him only days to grasp the Latin alphabet and to start reading the bible on his own. As far as I hear, now he devours each book he can get his hands on. He seems to have an insatiable appetite for knowledge. He is a studious young man and greatly devoted to our faith.”

“That was quick,” Aetlewulf snorted and Heahmund had a much harder time hiding his disdain at the snark coming from the king. By all means, he should be happy about the progress. As he directed his gaze at Heahmund again, he was like a snake, watching its prey, waiting to strike. Heahmund wondered if it was true what he had overheard the soldiers talking about inside the camp. He wondered if Aethelwulf truly was getting paranoid. “Are you certain, Bishop, that he is not putting on a show?”

“No, Sire,” He replied sternly. “It seems he really is adamant in his pursuit of Godliness.”

※※※※※※※

“The Romans have been very clever people,” Hvitserk muttered to himself as he strolled through the towns of York, a scarf wrapped around the lower half of his face to protect himself from the disease in the streets - and the pungent smell of burning flesh from the pyres all across town. “Very clever indeed … What did you mean, Brother? What did you hide from us? Why couldn't you just tell us what you have discovered before it was too late, Ivar?”

The sky hung heavy over the town of York with dark, grey, heavy clouds as rain kept drumming down onto the streets and soaking him to the bone. York was a gloomy, unfriendly place not too unlike Kattegat in the winter months. The air was not cold but to Hvitserk everything felt colder lately - with all his brothers gone and him being all alone in this unfriendly country. He was all by his lonesome for the very first time in his life. His heart felt as if an icy hand had wrapped itself around it. 

Not a day would pass where he would not think about his brothers back home. How was life treating them now with Lagertha on the throne? Yes, Ubbe had initially desired revenge just like Ivar - but Ubbe was not Ivar. Ubbe was far more agreeable and forgiving than Ivar. Also, losing a brother had probably not only put things into perspective for Hvitserk but for all the others as well. After losing one of their own, it had suddenly become much clearer what was important in life and what wasn’t. And taking revenge on Lagertha for their mother’s death, at least in Hvitserk’s eyes, was not important enough to risk a feud with Bjorn Ironside over it.

His own mortality had never been clearer to him than now. Furthermore, it had never been clearer to Hvitserk than now that his brothers too were mere mortals that would die one day. None of them were invincible and they ought to make the most out of every day on this earth before they would enter Valhalla and be reunited with Ivar and their father. 

Maybe he could still leave England and sail back home. Back home to where Ubbe was. For what, though? So that he would continue to run after his big brother like a loyal dog? No, he had a chance here. A chance to start his own saga, a chance to make a name for himself. And this siege … it would end one way or the other. He could try to wait it out but that way many of his warriors would die from starvation or the plague - or he could go into the offense but with most of their troops gone, he did not have the great heathen army under his command. Ivar would have done none of these things. He would have found another way. 

“The Romans were very clever people,” He repeated again to himself as he wandered the streets. Suddenly, his foot caught on something on the ground and he fell flat down on his face like the moron his family always made him out to be. With a groan, he slowly sat up on the muddy ground and stared at the object of offense that had caused his disgraceful fall. And there, embedded in the middle of the street, was a round iron plate covering a hole in the ground that would be just big enough for a person to climb into. Hvitserk let out a high-pitched laugh, aware of the looks it gained him from the people sitting underneath the roofs of the narrow houses at the sides of the streets. “Very clever indeed, Ivar!” He let out his breath.

※※※※※※※

His days at the monastery always seemed a little brighter when Bishop Heahmund would visit him, although, of course, the other monks were left confused as to why Bishop Heahmund still came to visit him weeks after he had recovered from his injuries. Athelstan, on the other hand, was certain that it was the Bishop’s good heart that forced him to return again and again to see him and get news of his recovery. 

He was in the garden, sitting on the ground leaning against a small piece of an ancient stone wall, and carving something out of a small piece of wood as he saw the bishop approach. His fingers were too clumsy for most delicate works which was why he was not a capable copyist but wood-carving came naturally to him. He couldn't help but wonder if he had done that a lot during his captivity in Norway. Perhaps it had been his only source of joy during those dark and trying times as a slave to the barbaric Norsemen. The lines he carved were precise, even the face delicate as he carved the little man out of the wood as if he had always been stuck in this small chip of wood and all Athelstan needed to do was free him from this prison. As the bishop approached him he lowered the knife and the piece of wood with a smile.

“Your Grace!” He greeted him easily even though the other monks and Abbot Ealhfrith would have reprimanded him for it. They all always cowered in front of Heahmund but Athelstan, who was already always on the ground when Heahmund would meet him, felt a strange kinship with the other man, a connection of souls and mind, perhaps. He couldn't quite put it into words what he felt when he would see the other man only that it was a feeling that he wouldn't want to miss for anything in the world.

“Athelstan,” The man replied as he met him outside in the garden and sat down on a tree trunk opposite of Athelstan. “What are you carving?”

“Oh … I don't know, just a little man, I suppose,” He said and handed the figure to the bishop. Heahmund was not above stretching to reach Athelstan’s hand, took it gingerly, and turned it over in front of his face. The slight change in Heahmund’s expression as he looked at the figure did not go unnoticed by Athelstan before the bishop quickly handed the figure back.

“It's nice work,” Heahmund complimented and Athelstan quickly explained the warm feeling settling in the pit of his stomach with the knowledge that everyone would feel this way when getting praised by someone as extraordinary as Bishop Heahmund of Sherborne. “How are you faring?”

“Good,” He said but as Heahmund’s gaze lingered, he gave in with a shrug. “I have weird dreams lately of high mountains and snow and … I don't know, the sound of crashing waves, the smell of fresh fish, people chatting and singing. But it always remains vague and elusive, never clear enough to grasp it. In my dreams, I am never alone. I feel like I am with my family when I am dreaming.”

“Memories of the past,” Heahmund concluded wisely. “Of your life before those heathens took you.”

“Yes … Yes you must be right, Bishop,” He said and looked down at the little figure in his calloused hand again. “I dreamed about this figure too. It was bigger in my dreams, though. It stood … like a tall statue - taller than you or I - in a temple made of wood - like a chapel, perhaps. I can still smell sage and myrrh in the air when I think about it. Here” - He handed the figure to Heahmund again - “I want you to have it, dear Bishop. You have been a good friend to me and I can not thank you enough for your kindness and your wisdom. Without you … I don't know what would have happened to me, Bishop. I am not a very smart man but I know enough to realize that … a man like me, a cripple, does not have many options in life. And now … after I have lived so long among the heathens, people look at me differently too. I don't know how people regarded me before but now it seems they see a devil in me, a demon crawling about like a snake. Of course, I understand their fear and their caution. However, you were the first person to treat me with kindness. You and Prince Alfred, of course. I will forever be grateful for that, Bishop.”

He could see a flicker of … _something_ , wash over Heahmund’s face but it was gone too quickly before Athelstan could even hope to understand what it was. His crystal blue eyes never left Athelstan’s face - as did the warmth in the pit of his stomach or the fluttering of his heart. 

“I am the one who has to be grateful to you, my friend,” Heahmund said. “As you reminded me of the core values of our faith. I am man enough to admit that it is easy to be swept away by power and admiration. I have been cruel and uncaring in the past. You reminded me of my roots, of how I once traveled into distant lands to aid the weak and the sick. You reminded me of why I decided to become a servant of God in the first place.” As Heahmund took the figure, his other hand came up to close around Athelstan’s for a moment.

“Bishop I have a request to make if it is not too much to ask,” He blurted out before fear could get the better of him again. Lately, he was almost always afraid of something. A demon hiding underneath his bed or in the corner of his barren room. Finally, Heahmund let his hand go and he wished that he hadn’t for he already bemoaned the warmth that was radiating from the other man. “I would like to get baptized again. I … I don't remember my life among the heathens or my life before that and maybe I never will. I don't know what I have done while at their mercy but I have the desire to renew my confession of faith and be reborn now that I am back home where I belong. I hope … maybe even my nightmares may cease then.”

“This can be arranged, my friend.”

“And,” He said before Heahmund could say another word even as his cheeks turned pink at the indiscretion. “I’m asking you to perform the rite … if it is not too much to ask, of course.”

Heahmund seemed taken aback for a second and he wanted to go back on his question as the man nodded. “It would be an honor and I am sure that Prince Alfred too would be honored to attend the ceremony.”

It happened two days later at sunrise. They had gathered at the river and for once, Athelstan was allowed to ride on the back of a cart so as to not soil the long white robe he was wearing. Everyone had gathered at the bank of the river ready to celebrate this beautiful moment with him. It was the first time that Athelstan felt like part of the family. His brothers even helped him off the cart and into the water instead of letting him crawl like an animal. The bitter part of his mind said that it was only because Prince Alfred and the bishop were watching over the scene. He tried to swallow down his bitterness as he made his way into the water where Heahmund already stood, dressed in his fine, white alb, a golden stole, and an inviting smile on his face. He could not go into this with bitter thoughts on his mind.

He couldn't go too far into the water otherwise he would drown himself but Heahmund stood in the knee-deep water and he was adamant to join him even as it meant he was submerged up to his chest as he sat in the sand and stones of the riverbed. Heahmund smiled at him and it was as if he was the sun itself shining down on him.

“We came here today,” Bishop Heahmund turned to the gathered crowd of monks, the abbot, and Prince Alfred. “to welcome our brother Athelstan back into our fold. He has been led astray and forced to live and fight among the heathen invaders for years and it has been his wish to be reborn into our holy church, to be washed clean of the sins of his past, and to be forgiven in the eyes of our Lord and our holy church.”

His heart was beating out of his chest as Heahmund finally turned back towards him. The bishop leaned down and placed both his hands gingerly at the sides of Athelstan’s face, the touch featherlight and yet arousing something deep inside of him that he had not yet known existed. The ritual should be familiar to him and comforting, but it was new and strange and yet, as Heahmund gently blew his breath across his forehead, he felt no fear for what was to come. How could he when he was in such good hands?

“With my breath, I do exorcise these evil spirits which inhabit you.”

The whispering was back in his ears and for a second he saw someone standing on the bridge that led across the river just a few feet away, right behind the bishop. It was a man, dressed in a tattered black cloak, his grey hair swaying in the gentle summer breeze, his right eye nothing more than a blacked-out hole that had been torn in his face. Two ravens were cawing in a tree as Heahmund made the sign of the cross at him.

“In nomine Patris et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

“Amen,” Athelstan repeated before he quickly closed his eyes even before Heahmund put his hand on his head and gently dunked him under the water. 

It happened too quickly for him to understand it. The moment under water was barely as long as it would take him to draw breath and yet, suddenly, he had a vision of a storm raging across the sea. He was drowning, tied to the mast of a ship, water in his lungs as he desperately tried to get free from the ties that were binding him to the mast. Through the water, he saw bodies floating around him and a man, swimming towards him, blue eyes flashing like lightning as he was saved. He resurfaced with a gasp and the figure on the bridge had vanished.

※※※※※※※

Keeping his mind sharp and clear in times of war was vital and no one knew this better than Heahmund. Yet, he had always been a friend of wine and of other pleasures. He could, after all, still repent for his sins later. It was hard to resist the wine, however, when celebrating something like getting a heathen baptized - even more so when that same heathen was such good company. They celebrated together until late that night, relieved that both he and the prince would stay at the monastery before they would make their return to the camp outside of York in the morning. 

In two days they would attack the town. That was the king’s decision and Heahmund would follow him into battle even though he would have waited another week.

“If you think it would be wiser to wait another week, Bishop, then why don't you tell the king?” Ivar later asked him and looked at him out of round blue eyes. If he wouldn't know that this young man was the same man who had killed the priest in York in such an unspeakable way, he would never believe that they were one and the same.

“The king, like so many men in power, is not a man fond of critique,” Heahmund replied with a chuckle as he brought his cup of wine back to his lips once more.

“Which is the polite way to say that he will yell at you and behave like a dick.”

He allowed a laugh to slip out at such words even though he shouldn't. He should reprimand the young monk for his choice of words. “I would not have framed it in that way but this is a very accurate description.”

“Mhm … Abbot Ealhfrith is the same way. Every time I come to him with an idea of how to work more efficiently, he shoots me down and makes me scrub the stairs for hours until my back hurts or he makes me peel and cut onions until my eyes swell shut.”

“Ah, those are the joys of being at the bottom of the food chain…”

“I would not call them joys,” Ivar laughed. “And I hope that I would act differently if I were a man in power. Though … a cripple like me will never yield any power, I assume.”

“Well, there is always hope, God teaches us so.”

“Even for a cripple like me?”

“Jesus made a cripple walk again and a blind man see.”

“I apologize, Bishop Heahmund, but I have little hope in that regard for myself. I doubt that Christ will come to heal my afflictions as well. Perhaps I deserve them for whatever I did while I lived amongst the heathens,” He said as he downed another cup of wine. His lips had a red tint from the alcohol and his cheeks pink. “I enjoy our conversations, Bishop,” He then said as he looked at Heahmund again. His eyes, Heahmund had come to realize, sometimes seemed to have an otherworldly color and he could not help the urge to be closer to the other man. The last time he had felt an urge like this and acted upon it, he had been a young priest himself, barely older than Ivar. He had forbidden himself from following such unclean desires. To sleep with a willing woman was one thing, to sleep with another man an entirely different crime against God, nature, and mankind. And yet, he could not help but wonder if Ivar’s lips tasted like wine. “And I am thankful to have found a friend in you.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Heahmund replied and lifted his own cup before draining it.

“I would like to join you at camp, Bishop,” Ivar then said. “Of course, far away from the battlefield when you enter the city. I would like to pray for your success, although I don't doubt that you will be successful regardless. Perhaps I can be of service to the queen while I am there, even though a man like me is probably one little help.”

It was too much of a risk, Heahmund thought. If they would fail their mission, Hvitserk would discover his brother at their camp. And yet … If they would fail, they would all be slaughtered and what would it matter then if Ivar would be reunited with his family? Sooner or later he would need to be reunited with his people anyway if they wanted him to spread the word. Yet, when he would be at camp he would be in great danger as well. There was, however, no good enough reason for Heahmund to deny Ivar this wish without looking odd to the young man.

“I will ask the prince in the morning,” He then promised. “If he allows it, I will gladly take you with me. Perhaps you could help cutting onions at the campsite.”

※※※※※※※

The king was not happy to greet him at camp and Athelstan had expected that. People in general just did not react favorably to his presence regardless of where he went. Queen Judith, on the other hand, welcomed him with a friendly smile and a kind heart. Even Prince Aethelred, who first granted him a look of uncertainty, quickly warmed to his presence - undoubtedly prompted by his younger brother’s and the bishop’s demeanor towards him. He was very lucky to call them his friends.

As he sat in the center of the camp near a fire, he could see York in the distance with her high walls and her towers. The sight stirred something in the pit of his stomach. It was a sense of familiarity. Well, of course, he had been to York before, after all. This was the place where he had almost died but had been found and saved by the bishop. And yet, there was something else tugging at his very soul as he stared into the distance at the town.

He noticed that the bishop was turning the little wooden man over and over in his hands as they sat together that night. The sun had already set and tomorrow morning, the king and his army would enter York and rip it from the hands of the heathens. The excitement of a battle to come hung heavy over the camp like fog over a mountain lake.

“This little figure,” The bishop said suddenly. “do you know who that is?”

“No,” He said, surprise coloring his words as he did. 

“It is Odin.”

 _Odin_. The name was like lightning flashing through his mind. Odin. The Allfather. His father. He felt as if he was being watched, all of a sudden, by one startling blue eye like lightning trapped in a bottle. As he glanced quickly to the side, he could see him again, the man from the bridge, standing at the edge of the camp, a staff in his hand, and, as he blinked, he was gone again. 

“Odin,” He repeated, turning the name over and over in his head. He remembered sitting in a small wooden hut. It smelled like salt and herbs. A woman with long, flowing blonde hair was humming a lullaby and a man with crazy eyes gingerly handed him a small wooden pad with a rune painted on it.

 _It means protection, Ivar_ , the man had told him. Algiz. Protection. His father too had sought to protect him. Even in his last days on this earth, he had wanted him, his crippled son, safe. 

His head hurt. He felt like he was drunk but he had barely drunken any wine yet. In his head was a maelstrom of emotions and the fragments of memories that were not even his own it seemed. He felt as if his mind had broken in two pieces and that voice that kept whispering in his ear only grew louder and more and more agitated with each day. His baptism had not helped to exorcise this demon out of his mind.

“Odin is the allfather,” He then said quietly to Heahmund. “He exchanged his right eye for the wisdom of Mimir’s well. And on his shoulders sit two ravens, Hugin and Munin. He is the most important of the pagan gods.”

Briefly, something flashed over Heahmund’s face, just like it did when Athelstan had first given him the little figure. This time, however, the demon inside his head was quick enough to catch it. _Alarm_ , it whispered into his ear. _He is alarmed. He does not want you to remember your past. It would mean the end of your friendship. The end of your life. Play dumb._

“Are your … memories returning to you, my friend?”

“No,” He said before he could even think about what kind of answer he wanted to give. “No … it's just … fragments. I remember the Gods … a little at least. I remember Thor, Frey, and Freyja. I remember Balder, the most beloved of the Gods, and Tyr. And I remember Loki, the God of Mischief. His monstrous son, the giant wolf Fenrir, will defeat Odin in a mighty battle during Ragnarök.” 

Heahmund breathed out a chuckle but the strange look in his eyes remained. “Well, that sounds quite drastic indeed. I thought Odin was all-powerful, how does it come that he can be bested by a wolf then?”

He huffed out a laugh at that. “Well, there are many miraculous things in their faith like this. Like the snake whose body holds in the sea.”

“I am glad that your memories start to return little by little.” 

_He’s lying_ , the demon in his head spat but Athelstan still smiled at Heahmund and emptied his cup.

※※※※※※※

At first, his men had been uncertain whether or not he had lost his mind after all. Hvitserk was aware that some of his men had been looking at him questioningly lately, unsure of how sane their young, inexperienced leader truly was. Additionally, he held no illusions about the fact that they were only following him because he was the son of Ragnar Lothbrok. If he were any other young man, if his father had not been a hero of his people, a king, and father of all of Norway, none of them would have even considered staying with Hvitserk at York let alone allowed him to live after their hunters had stopped returning with food.

Hvitserk himself had been unsure of his plan as he had first gone down into the tunnels beneath York but he had quickly realized that it would work. Ivar would have been proud of him and his idea - even though, somehow, it did not even quite feel like his own idea. If Ivar had not nagged him about the genius of the Romans all the time, he would have never gotten the idea in the first place. This battle, he dedicated to his lost brother who had died before he could have made a legend out of himself. Nevertheless, Hvitserk would forever tell the tale of the crippled prince who had led the great heathen army into victory with his mad genius. 

The resulting battle was bloody and brutal. They had waited in the tunnels beneath the city, biding their time until Aethelwulf and his ilk would storm through the gates only to find the city deserted. His only thought down in the tunnels had been that he hoped that Aethelwulf was stupid enough to fall for their trap. And, in the end, he did. Aethelwulf, the idiot king, had led not only his army but his two young sons into their doom and when the grids in the streets of York had suddenly opened and a horde of angry Vikings burst through them, they had quickly realized their deathly mistake. The Saxons were surrounded and the Vikings brutal as they slaughtered one Saxon fighter after the other. Many of them fled the battle, scared witless by the sudden attack only to be struck down by an arrow or an ax.

In the midst of battle, Hvitserk Ragnarsson felt alive. It had always been like this. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils and burned through him like meat as he sliced and diced his way through the enemies. Soon, blood and sweat clung to his face in equal measures as his battle cry tore through the city his brother had died for. Nothing but the fray of battle had ever made Hvitserk feel so alive. He was like a hurricane as he cut through the enemies. Over the screams and battle cries, he could hear the king call his men to retreat. He caught a glimpse of a man on horseback, yelling prayers to his God as he was cutting through his soldiers. His horse was killed swiftly and buried the man underneath its dead body and then, panicked and confused, _he_ appeared out of nowhere right in front of Hvitserk.

Aethelred.

Hvitserk saw how the king had grabbed his younger son and was rushing back to the gates from which they had come, calling for his men to save their lives. He probably thought his older son was right behind him.

Aethelred, to his credit, did not run as he came face to face with Hvitserk. He could see the fear in the other man’s eyes as he held his sword up to defend himself until his death. However, even before Hvitserk could strike him down, an arrow pierced his shoulder. Aethelred stumbled forward before, probably from exhaustion, he collapsed on the ground in front of him. And, just like that, the fight for York was over. Hvitserk had won and proven himself to his men. And, more importantly, now he had a hostage to make demands with. 

**-End of Chapter 5-**


	6. Chapter 6

Athelstan had expected that the king would return to camp victoriously after the army had starved those heathen bastards out for weeks now. Instead, the army returned with a hailstorm on their tail and their lines clearly thinned out. Those who managed to return returned injured and demoralized. He was at the side of the queen when the defeated warriors returned to camp, seeking shelter from the rain and the wind under a canopy. At the sight of the injured men, his heart seemed to be beating out of his chest and while Queen Judith was searching the ranks with her eyes, panicked for her husband and sons, Ivar was scanning the crowd for the bishop. The voice inside his ear kept telling him that it would be his doom if the bishop had died on the battlefield. 

He knew that this was true. 

Before he could ever hope to find Heahmund, however, the king came into sight, at his side, the younger prince. “WHERE IS THE CRIPPLE?” Aethelwulf yelled across the camp. A spark of fury ignited inside of Athelstan’s heart. He would kill that man if he would ever get the chance. The thought paralyzed him with horror. Yet, it was not the first time he had thoughts like this. He had had thoughts like this about Abbot Ealhfrith as well. Every time his eyes would find the branding on his chest, he would be struck with anger while he knew that he should be proud to have the cross on his skin. 

The moment Aethelwulf caught sight of him, he came stomping towards him like an angry bull. He was clearly injured as well as his son but right now his own injuries seemed forgotten as he focused only on Athelstan. He was fuming and his fury was clearly directed at him, why, however, was beyond him. Before Aethelwulf could reach him, however, the queen went between them, holding her husband back with fearful, round eyes and trembling hands.

“Where is Aethelred?” She asked quickly, her voice high in pitch. “Where is our son?”

“Where is Bishop Heahmund?” Athelstan asked before he could think about it twice even though he knew that he had no right to address the king like this and ask questions. Something inside of him told him that he was not made to cower in front of people like Aethelwulf. _He should cower in front of you_ , the voice in his ear said.

“I lost sight of Aethelred,” Aethelwulf begrudgingly admitted, his fury suddenly dissipated like alcohol over a flame. There was grief in his eyes. “The last time I saw him, he came face to face with Ragnar’s son - Hvitserk.”

Judith raised her hands to her mouth in horror, tears shooting into her eyes, but Athelstan’s mind was occupied with something else all of a sudden. _Hvitserk_. It was the first time he heard the name of the opponent. Hvitserk. Memories of sunny smiles and mischievous eyes resurfaced in a flash, memories of him being comforted by his older brother when he had been much younger, memories of how his big brothers had pulled him through his hometown in a cart. _Hvitserk, his brother._

“He might be dead as far as we know and all of that because-”

“No,” Judith said sharply - her voice like a slap. He felt like he was missing a crucial part of their conversation just by the way Judith looked at her husband. “No, our son is alive. I can feel that he is alive.” She said softer this time and Aethelwulf looked to the side, anger written all over his face. There was something else going on between the king and the queen, something that Athelstan was unable to grasp. Alfred looked severely uncomfortable and worried the way he stood there listening to his parents. Then, however, Athelstan’s attention was pulled away from the royal family as he saw a couple of soldiers carrying the body of a man into camp on a stretcher. He would recognize the bishop anywhere. 

He quickly crawled over to where the bishop was being carried into camp but the man was unconscious and there was nothing else to do for him than follow the procession into the tent for the invalids. Forgotten was the fact that the king had yelled for him earlier, forgotten the king’s fury at him.

“What happened?” He asked one of the warriors and although he had been disregarded by the warriors until now, this time he was actually acknowledged. 

“His horse was killed,” One of them said. “It is a miracle he was not crushed under the animal.”

“God was there with him and held His hand over the good bishop,” Athelstan said quietly, quickly making the sign of the cross, even though he knew that not the Christian God had watched over Heahmund. Odin had been there, the warrior God. “I will be praying for his quick recovery.”

Someone squeezed his shoulder at that and then he was left alone with the unconscious man. He was sick with worry as he started cleaning up the blood and mud from the bishop’s handsome face. He could admit that he was jealous of the bishop. The bishop with his good looks and his strong body. He was respected by everyone he met. People revered him with admiration, while the same people only looked down on Athelstan and frowned at his presence like he was nothing but a worm on the ground. He held no illusions about the fact that they would treat him the same way if he would not be a cripple for the simple fact that he had lived amongst the heathens for such a long time. 

_No_ , the voice said, _you didn't just live among them. You_ are _a heathen._

He quickly brushed this thought off even though he knew it was the truth. He knew that the demon in his mind was speaking the truth. Each day now since his baptism, more and more memories seemed to return to him. Memories of his father in a dark cell, memories of drowning during a storm. _Ivar_ , he thought. That was his name. Ivar. And yet he was here, filled with the gospel of the one true God, sitting at the side of the bishop who saved him, cleaning his wounds and muttering gentle prayers over him. 

※※※※※※※

A voice quietly pierced through the darkness of his mind. The voice was soft and gentle and never failed to make his heart race every time he would hear it. He wanted to swim to the surface of consciousness but he felt weighed down by his own body and he felt unable to open his eyes. All he could do was listen to the voice and try to make out the words it was saying. The more he tried to focus on the sound, the harder and harder it seemed to get to hear actual words, and the farther away the voice seemed to get, like the mirage of an oasis in the desert.

“Thor came to a deep channel,” The voice said. “The sun dazzled upon the water. On the far bank, a figure sprawled in the sun, his flat-bottomed boat beside him. _‘Hey!’_ , yelled Thor. _‘You over there! Are you the ferryman and whose ferry is that?’_ The figure sat up. He cupped his hands and shouted, _‘Hildof, the slaughtered wolf entrusted it to me! And he has given me my orders! So, if you want to cross here, tell me your name!’_ Demanded the ferryman. _‘Mmm, I’ll tell you. I am the son of Odin, the strongest god of all. So, ferryman, you are talking to Thor!’_ The god’s words made waves across the water, they broke at the ferryman’s feet. _‘Now tell me your name,’_ said Thor. And the ferryman, he stood up and he shouted, _‘My name is Harbard! I seldom hide it.’_ ”

A chuckle. The sound was faint but he had heard it clearly. “I wish you were awake, Bishop…” The voice muttered. “I don't remember many stories of the Gods. You need to wake up soon. Tensions are high. I am afraid of what the king might do without your wise counsel...”

He was pulled down into the dark waters of his unconsciousness again by the ghostly hands of the sins of his past even as he fought to wake up. The next time consciousness dawned on him, the world around him was quiet and dark, and yet he knew, could feel, that he was not alone. This time he actually managed to open his eyes against the darkness around him. He was inside a tent - _that_ he could tell even before the world started to make sense. Someone was breathing next to him, deep and steady and probably fast asleep. 

It took all his willpower to turn his head enough to actually look at the person at his bedside even though he already knew who it was. And, sure enough, with his head resting on the bed, sitting on the ground next to the cot on which Heahmund was lying, Ivar was asleep by his side. A smile graced his face at the sight even as a dagger pierced his heart at the knowledge that he would have never gotten to know this young man if it were not for the ploy to use him against his own people. 

How would Ivar ever be able to forgive him for that? And how long would it take until all his memories would return to him? In the end, it didn't matter if Ivar would regain his memories or not. Aethelwulf would end his life sooner or later. He would give him a martyr death as soon as Ivar had fulfilled his purpose. No matter what would happen, Heahmund knew that one day, Ivar would leave his side one way or the other and that thought pained him more than he was willing to admit.

“Lord, you are testing me,” He whispered to himself. Once more God had put his darkest desire right in front of him and it was on Heahmund to prove that he was no longer the young man who had fooled around with other men in the secrecy of the woods or some random barns. Deep down, however, he knew that he had not changed since then. He just thought he had and all those women he had slept with since, though a willing distraction to what he truly desired, were nothing more than the lesser of two evils. 

And yet, as he saw Ivar sitting by his side, he could not help but brush his fingers carefully through his hair and feel its silky softness under the tips of his fingers. He wanted to cherish that moment and that feeling forever no matter how brief or simple it may be. There was something profound in its simplicity, something he could not even begin to put into words.

“You are awake…” The voice was soft and gentle and took him completely by surprise. He quickly pulled his hand back on instinct as if burned, even though he had the feeling that Ivar didn't really mind the contact. Maybe it was his wild nature that made him more open to such a connection without him even realizing it, or it was the purity of his heart now that he was reborn a Christian, that made him so receptive and open towards Heahmund - a gift from God that Heahmund was afraid to abuse.

“Yes,” He heard himself whisper as Ivar slowly sat up and blinked the sleep out of his eyes. “Have you been here this entire time?”

“I prayed for your recovery, Bishop,” Ivar murmured sleepily. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m alive,” He replied with a small smile and let his hand fall onto his stomach. “So … That is a start, I think.”

“I’m glad,” Ivar confessed. He sounded truthful enough to make his heart stutter. “I was not sure. I was worried.”

“I heard how you told me a story earlier.”

“Oh,” Even in the darkness of the tent he could tell that Ivar suddenly looked embarrassed. “Yes … I just … remembered it from my time with the heathens and I … I’m sorry, I should not have told that story. I should have just continued praying or…”

“It’s fine,” Heahmund quickly replied. “I liked it. Do you remember other stories?”

“A few…”

“Maybe you could tell me.”

“But, Bishop, isn't that … blasphemy?”

“They are only stories and I have always enjoyed stories.”

“Well,” Ivar said with a small toothy smile. “In that case, let me tell you the story about how Thor went fishing one day.”

※※※※※※※

They had been victorious and all thanks to his clever, dead brother and his insistence of talking his ear off after they had taken York. “I have to thank you, brother,” Hvitserk muttered to himself as he stood in front of the door of the room that held his prisoner. “I am certain you are rejoicing with father in Valhalla now because even in death you achieved a great victory.” He would make sure that they would bring forth a sacrifice later while they celebrated and dedicate it to Ivar. 

That had to wait though. His prisoner was more important right now. He did not bother knocking on the door as he unlocked it. The room behind the door was small and only held a bed, a chair, and a chamber pot. On the bed itself, the body of a young man rested. Only moments ago, a slave had dressed his wounds. To Hvitserk’s luck, his prisoner was awake. He rested with his upper body exposed after he had just gotten bandaged and stitched up. He looked pale as he directed his gaze at Hvitserk but he did not look scared necessarily.

“You are awake, good,” Hvitserk grinned as he stepped closer. “Prince Aethelred. I am sure we will have many fruitful conversations.”

He was not exactly cut out for this. He was not the person who would be called to negotiate with anyone. He did not possess the same silver tongue that his baby brother possessed. He was not the best talker. He was a quieter kind of person - at the most, he would be making stupid jokes to make his family and his friends laugh. In that way, he assumed he was a little like Ragnar. He had his father’s quietness but not necessarily his intelligence. Ivar had always made sure to remind him of that. He was not stupid either, though, and that was something Hvitserk knew - something that gave him the confidence to go on. It was just that he had little room to shine on his own when Ivar was around. Ivar … his genius brother. He would know exactly what to say right now. 

The prince still looked half asleep as he directed his gaze at Hvitserk. He did not seem agitated or angry, though, not even all that scared. He was probably smart enough to know that Hvitserk needed him alive and that it would be in his best interest to cooperate. 

“Prince Hvitserk…” Aethelred muttered from where he was lying on the bed. He was surprised by the courtesy of being addressed like it. Not even his own people addressed him as a prince half the time. “I would say that I am happy to finally meet you but I am afraid that that would be a lie - under the given circumstances.”

“I am not offended,” Hvitserk replied with a smirk before he sat down on the chair next to the bed as if they were old friends. The truth was, every joint and muscle in his body was sore after the battle. “You are in luck. My brother Ivar would react differently.”

“In that case,” Aethelred replied. “It would be wiser of me to play nice, I assume.”

“You assume right.”

※※※※※※※

His recovery was slow, his injuries severe. He knew that he needed to be patient and could deem himself a lucky man that he had such a loving and caring nurse in Ivar. The young man never left his side when it was not completely necessary. By now, it seemed almost impossible that this same young man was that feral Viking warrior that had fought against Aelle and their Saxon troops in York. He was the very image of the pious monk. Every morning, Ivar would kneel next to Heahmund’s cot and speak prayers with him, and later, around noon, he would read the bible to him. In the evenings, however, he would tell him stories of the heathen Gods and Heahmund would lean back, close his eyes and imagine the world that Ivar was painting so vividly for him.

He could almost see the faces of the Gods in his mind’s eye like old friends from his past that he had almost forgotten. By the time the third day of his recovery was over, he was allowed to return to his tent to rest and again Ivar stayed close by his side. They were sharing a tent because no one wanted to share a tent with a cripple, apparently, and Heahmund didn't mind sharing his space. 

The king, however, was furious and his anger grew with every day that passed without news of his son. So far, Hvitserk had not yet made any demands or even asked for a meeting with the king to negotiate. His demands were clear anyway. Hvitserk wanted the siege on York to stop, he wanted the city for himself, he wanted the land that had been promised to his father a long time ago, he wanted revenge for the settlement that Aethelwulf had attacked and destroyed under his father’s orders. Hvitserk really didn't need to say anything to Aethelwulf but the king was too stubborn to show Hvitserk a sign of his goodwill and retreat. All he would need to do was raise the white flag and ask for his son back. So far, the sons of Ragnar seemed reasonable enough, and Hvitserk was certainly no exception to that.

“Hvitserk,” Ivar muttered as they sat in their tent on their cots as if he had been reading his mind. Outside it was raining cats and dogs. The rain was drumming down onto their tent in fat drops like a cacophony of drums in the night. Between them, on a small table, Heahmund had set up a chessboard. His were the white pieces and Ivar was using the black ones. So far, the young man was doing quite well. “What kind of a person is this Viking leader?”

“I’m sure I don't know what you mean.”

“Well,” He said as he prepared to elaborate. “Is he more of a calm and collected kind of man or is he like the people say those Vikings are? Wild and unhinged?”

“I have seen him in battle,” Heahmund replied. “He was a berserker, laughing and enjoying the blood that sprayed onto his face like warm summer rain. He found pleasure in the killing and the bloodshed.”

“So you think that he cannot be reasoned with.”

“I did not say that,” Heahmund huffed. “I think he is open to dialogue. Yet, he is all alone in this country. His other brothers have left England a while ago, and, people say, he is still in agony over the death of his youngest brother on the battlefield. Apparently, he is talking to himself in the streets of York. That is what my spies have claimed.”

“In that case, the king needs to be very careful and play his cards just right.”

“I agree,” Heahmund said and moved his bishop forward. “Checkmate.”

Ivar looked down on the board and then he laughed. “You distracted me, dear Bishop!”

“Of course, I did. I wanted to win.”

Ivar’s mouth pulled into a grin at that, his eyes flashing with amusement. He was a good sport about losing and Heahmund wondered if that was just his nature or if the real Ivar the Boneless would have thrown an ax at him for winning against him. He could see a spark in those bright blue eyes that, God help him, fascinated him to no end. In fact, he had caught himself dreaming of those eyes and that crooked smile, that amused twinkle far more often than he cared to admit. And, once more, Heahmund couldn't help but be curious about the real version of Ivar. Would he ever meet that Viking man or would Ivar forever be that docile monk? It almost seemed a shame to have lost such a brilliant mind to self-doubt and anxiety.

“You succeeded,” Ivar replied and his voice was sweet as honey and smooth as silk. If he noticed that Heahmund’s eyes traveled to his mouth only to hang onto his lips, he didn't show it - or perhaps he thought nothing of it. Not for the first time, he felt the urge to punish himself for those thoughts but with Ivar ever-present, he could hardly do so without explaining himself to the young man. This made resisting his unclean thoughts certainly harder. The only thing holding him back as for now was that he did not wish to scare Ivar with such improper actions.

“Tell me … What more do you remember from your time with the heathens?”

Ivar seemed taken by surprise at first but then he breathed out a small sigh through his lips. “I dreamed of a place called Uppsala last night.”

“What's that?”

“It is their … holy site. Every nine years they travel from Norway to Sweden and into the mountains to this magical place to honor their Gods and pray to them. It is their Jerusalem. And there they celebrate the spring equinox with food, mead, sacrifices, and orgies.”

“Orgies?”

Ivar’s ears turned pink but his smile remained amused. “Yes, orgies, dear Bishop. Of course … I did not take part in those. I was a slave, after all. But I remembered it … women and men fornicating in the woods, copulating like animals … women indulging in other women, men indulging in other men…”

The scene he envisioned was one of nightmares for sure and yet, despite being a bishop, he too was still only a man and he was fighting this demon inside his mind every day of his life. “Blasphemy,” He muttered to himself before he reached out and placed a comforting hand on Ivar’s shoulder - if only to touch him. “I am glad that you made it back into the fold of our Holy Church and no longer need to witness such debauchery. Your soul will be saved, my friend, as those heathens will burn in Hell forever.”

※※※※※※※

The storm got worse as the night got darker. Thor was waging war against the Jötnar in Jotunheim. Or were those the first foreboding sounds of Ragnarök? Was his father Ragnar now at the side of Odin? Fighting at the side of the Gods? What would his father think of his plight as he was lying on that cot in the camp of the Saxon King Aethelwulf at the side of a bishop? Their cots were only a few inches apart due to the limited space inside their tent. The bishop’s tent was smaller than those of the royal family. It was not quite meant to house two people and yet Heahmund had never shown any sign of annoyance that he needed to share what little space he had with him, the crippled monk.

Would his father perhaps laugh at the irony that he had been given the name Athelstan? It was quite amusing, he would say. Another bolt of lightning and the loud crack of thunder had him suddenly bolt upright in his bed. Next to him, the bishop stirred as well, a low groan slipping out of his mouth.

“It's alright…” Heahmund muttered. “It's just a storm…”

“The heathens say that it's Thor,” Ivar whispered into the darkness after a moment of pause. “The thunder is him bringing down his mighty hammer Mjölnir on the skulls of his enemies as he protects humanity from the giants of Jotunheim. It is said that Mjölnir was forged by the dwarfs in a bet with the trickster god Loki, who offered his head in the bet. In the end, he lost the bet but he argued that while his head was forfeit, his neck was not.”

“What happened then?”

“The dwarf stitched Loki’s lips together with a thong.”

To his surprise, the bishop let a low laugh slip out. He would have expected horror at the tale or even outrage. The bishop was a man of many surprises though it seemed. And perhaps, Ivar thought, he could use this to his advantage. He knew that his life was at risk here at the camp but at least here he would not get whipped for eating an apple or branded with a cross for just existing. Furthermore, _here_ he was closer to York, closer to his brother. He needed the bishop on his side to ensure his safety, though. He knew that. For now, Heahmund was the only thing keeping him alive. From what he observed, Aethelwulf wanted his death after his son had been captured. It was thanks to Alfred and his mother that he had not yet gone through with it and thanks to Heahmund who was acting as a shield between him and the king - and Ivar was aware that he would only remain his shield for as long as he thought that Ivar was still fully believing into the fabricated tale of him being a pious monk.

And yet, there was something else simmering just beneath the surface throughout all their conversations, throughout all their time spent together. He was not blind to it - just cautious.

“The storm frightens me,” Ivar then confessed. It was not entirely a lie either. The storm reminded him of his voyage to England with his father where he had almost drowned and it reminded him of all the times he had scurried across the floor towards the bed Ubbe had shared with Hvitserk during their childhood to find shelter between his older brothers. He could still hear their annoyed grunts and groans in his head. “It is childish … I know … yet, it scares me.”

“Fear is natural,” Heahmund said. “There is nothing to be ashamed of.”

He heard in the darkness of their tent, how Heahmund got up from his cot and then shoved his cot closer towards Ivar’s until they were side by side. As the bishop lay down again he was so close that Ivar could feel his warm breath on his face. The bishop did not shy away from grasping Ivar’s hand, determined to give him comfort in his fear. 

For the longest moment they just laid there on their sides facing each other and as another bolt of lightning shot from the skies and bathed their tent into daylight for a second, Heahmund’s eyes shone directly in front of him, making Ivar realize for the first time just how close he was. There were no words exchanged, no thoughts formed as he finally moved even closer, and allowed his lips to brush against Heahmund’s. He expected the man to flinch away from the touch, to react in anger - instead, the hand that was holding his suddenly came up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer against the older man.

Everything after that was a maelstrom of heavy kisses, teeth pulling at lips, and skin touching skin. The air was heavy inside the tent as Heahmund’s hand sneaked underneath his cowl and into his linen breeches. For a second, his breath hitched as Heahmund’s hand found his manhood, fear flooding his mind as he was so painfully reminded of his encounter with Margrethe - only to find how a moan was startled out of him as Heahmund’s fingers found him hard and wanting instead of limp and broken. There was no time to be confused about it as he quickly captured Heahmund’s mouth again to drown out his moans. 

Wanting to return the favor, his own hand quickly sneaked beneath Heahmund’s blanket and into the pair of linen pants he was wearing. His manhood had an impressive size even as he only touched it with tentative fingers and not quite knowing what to do. Whatever he was doing, however, had the effect that Heahmund pressed himself more into Ivar’s hand.

Soon his hand was moving in unison with Heahmund as he shuddered under the intense pleasure that was flooding his system and that was so foreign to him that it was like a shock to his entire being. He could do nothing except go with it, let it happen and let lust take a hold of him. When he came it was like being pushed over a cliff.

They lay panting together on their beds, nose to nose as they breathed in the other’s scent. For the first time, Ivar felt at peace with himself and he did not allow fear to take over once more. Fear of being pushed away by Heahmund, fear of being judged by others. Here in the darkness of their tent, they were safe. Just a little while longer. 

**-End of Chapter 6-**


	7. Chapter 7

It was a dangerous game that they were playing. No one knew this better than Bishop Heahmund who had seen young men being killed for being sodomites in the past. He, who had himself condemned such behavior in the past. He, who had decided upon the punishment of such people in the past. And yet, he was defenseless against his own desire. He was defenseless against the sins of the flesh, defenseless against Ivar and the intoxicating stories he would tell of the old Norse Gods when they would lie beside each other, wrapped in the comfort and secrecy of the night, cocooned like in a blanket and hidden from the eyes of the people around them. Their tent was their own little world, far away from the war.

Ivar rested on his stomach next to him. Perhaps, he thought idly as he traced the curve of Ivar’s spine with his index finger, Ivar had put a pagan spell on him. Maybe he truly was the devil and Heahmund had fallen for his tricks. He couldn't find it in himself to care though while he knew at the same time that this was yet another sign of witchcraft or black magic. The devil made it so that the sinner didn't care that he was committing a sin. 

And wasn’t Ivar just gorgeous the way he lay on the cot beside him like this? He was wearing a thin linen shirt the same as Heahmund and yet he could almost make out the shape of his spine and the curve where it blended into his bottom. Beneath this thin layer of fabric lay the scars that Abbot Ealsfrith had beaten into the young heathen’s skin and the tattoo that Ivar himself seemed unaware of. He would need to come up with an explanation for a tattoo like this. No slave would ever be allowed such a marvel on their skin, after all. 

The truth was that he was growing tired of lying to Ivar. He craved telling him the truth - especially now that the king seemed to be losing his mind more and more every day now. He was becoming unhinged, unraveling at the seams by the hour. King Aethelwulf did not have his father’s strategic mind paired with a calm disposition. He only saw what was right in front of him and right now, his son was in the hands of his enemy while he himself was sheltering the brother of that same enemy. 

“Is there something on your mind, Heahmund?” Ivar asked and pulled him from his thoughts. He hadn't even noticed that the young man was staring at him.

“I worry about the prince.”

“He won’t hurt Prince Aethelred,” Ivar said with a conviction that made Heahmund furrow his brows in turn.

“You sound very sure about that.”

“Well … I’m not sure, of course … It's just … It would be stupid of this Hvitserk-person to harm the prince or even kill him. He has a bargaining chip in his hands, after all. He would be smarter to negotiate with the king and he can only do that if the prince remains unharmed. I don't think that Hvitserk would be so stupid.”

“I hope you are right.”

Ivar turned on his back and extended his hand to put it on the back of Heahmund’s neck. He allowed the young man to pull him down and into a kiss without hesitation, pliant under Ivar’s calloused fingers.

It seemed that ever since they had shared their first kiss just two nights ago, neither one of them could get enough of the other - not to mention that their hands would continue roaming under their blankets when night had settled upon the camp. By now, it didn't take much to ignite Heahmund’s fire as Ivar’s fingers somehow always found the right spots to touch while still giving him the impression that he had never been with another person like this.

The kiss was slow and lazy, their tongues brushing together in a silent dance as Heahmund leaned over the younger man, Ivar’s cot creaking miserably under the added weight. His lips quirked into a smile as Ivar’s free hand drove underneath the hem of his shirt and shoved the fabric up. Heahmund gladly complied and got rid of the shirt altogether even as it meant breaking away from the kiss for a second. 

“Impatient, aren't we?” Heahmund huffed before diving back down to steal another kiss from those plump lips.

“I want you,” Ivar groaned in response, allowing Heahmund a rare glimpse of his true personality that still seemed so out of reach for the young man. His words, however, sent tingles down Heahmund’s spine and it took all of his self-control to not just rip Ivar’s clothes off and take him right then and there. 

“We can arrange that,” Heahmund chuckled and bit down on Ivar’s neck to draw a soft moan from his lover’s throat. He was so easy to arouse, so easy to drive into madness but that didn't make it less exciting for Heahmund. Quite the contrary. To think that this fierce Viking warrior was so innocent when it came to matters of the flesh made it all just so more exciting for Heahmund. To know that he was the first who got to touch and kiss him like that, almost drove him to the brink of madness. The bishop was just about to pull off Ivar’s shirt, as he heard steps in the mud outside of their tent. Quickly, he moved back onto his own cot and turned onto his side, his back to Ivar, and pretended as if he was asleep, his heart racing like a mad bird. For a moment he thought he had reacted prematurely but he also knew that he could not possibly risk being caught with the young Viking like that. It would be their death.

Right as he thought the person outside had walked past their tent, he heard the flap being opened. “Bishop!” It was Prince Alfred’s voice calling for his attention. “Bishop Heahmund, wake up! My father wants to see you! Come quick!”

Heahmund grunted a response but shot up anyway and scrambled to get his shirt and then his armor back on. Alfred was already outside again - probably to give him some privacy and not wake up Ivar. He made quick work of getting dressed but as he glanced back at Ivar, the young man was watching him intently with the eyes of a hawk, a small grin pulling at the corners of his mouth as if he was amused by the situation at hand, amused by them almost having been caught by Alfred. It was moments like this when he got a hint of the little devil Ivar truly was deep down. Heahmund bit back on a chuckle before he walked out of the tent. 

It was late and everyone was asleep - except for those who were on watch duty, of course. Heahmund knew that if the king wanted to talk to him this late at night, it certainly ought to be important. The prince was still outside waiting for Heahmund and not for the first time as his eyes fell upon the young man, he thought that England would be in good hands if Prince Alfred would succeed his father instead of his brother. Prince Aethelred was a good man for sure but he did not have his younger brother’s or his grandfather’s intelligence. He was a younger version of the king and although Heahmund respected the king, he was well aware that Aethelwulf was not the most skilled leader. A man like Aethelwulf would have never been able to achieve what his father had been able to achieve in the past. Of course, Heahmund was aware that Ecbert had managed to achieve many of those great things with intrigues and some of them even with the help of Ragnar but his sins had been justified by the greater good that Ecbert had managed to do. At least that was what Ecbert had believed in his dying days if the queen could be believed.

“What is it that is so urgent?” Heahmund asked as he followed Alfred through the camp. He was still not back to form as he was recovering from his injuries, even despite the good care Ivar took of him. At least he was upright again and able to walk around and even train with the warriors or even Alfred from time to time while Ivar would be watching from the sidelines. Sometimes it felt almost as if the young man was studying him and the way he would be moving during those training sessions. Perhaps it were his Viking instincts making him want to learn Heahmund’s way of fighting. 

“We received a message,” Alfred said quietly as if he was afraid that they would be overheard.

“A message?”

“From Hvitserk,” The prince quickly clarified with a meaningful glance at the bishop. “He sent it … well … He shot a burning arrow into the foot of one of our spies.”

“Into his foot?”

“Apparently, Hvitserk is a great shot.”

“Apparently so.”

“Anyway … He asks for negotiations … it seems my brother … Well, it seems my brother gave away that Ivar is not dead.”

His heart sank at those words but he schooled his face into a mask of calmness as he walked up to the tent Aethelwulf expected him in. The queen was there as well, pacing back and forth as she was worrying her thumb between her teeth while her husband was silently fuming with rage. Alfred seemed worried more than anything as they joined his parents. If he was disappointed with his brother giving up such vital information, he was not showing it. In fact, Heahmund believed that Alfred was sincerely afraid for the well-being of his big brother. The same way that Hvitserk was probably afraid for the well-being of his little brother. After all, there was no telling how much torture Prince Aethelred had to have endured before he had spilled this secret.

“Ah!” Aethelwulf barked as he caught sight of him. “There he is! The man who got us into this mess in the first place!”

It took all his willpower and decades of living as a monk and abiding by the rules that God had set out for them to not snap at the king. After all, had it not been Judith’s idea to lie to Ivar in the first place? He might have taken the young man from the battlefield but it had been the queen’s plan to make him into a puppet first. Although granted, it felt almost impossible to absolve himself from any guilt or wrong-doing in this situation. He had done it to save the boy’s life, sure, and yet he had decided to play along, to lie to him, to deceive him, to make him believe he was someone that he was not. In the name of God, of course. To honor God’s glory, of course. To bring God and his light to the heathens, of course. For the greater good. Sometimes he wondered how much could be excused in the name of a greater good. How many more people would be slain for the greater good? How many more people would die in the name of God? Endless crusades lay before them, it felt. He couldn't help but wonder if Christianity would ever manage to succeed and spread across the entire known world, Furthermore, he couldn't help but wonder if it would be worth the price of millions of lives to achieve that. Sometimes he envied the heathens who were so steadfast in their own beliefs that they did not feel the need to force others into adopting their beliefs. 

He bowed his head in a silent show of humility at Aethelwulf’s words. “My king, I just heard the news.”

“The news!” Aethelwulf spat and stepped closer only to push a finger into Heahmund’s chest like a dagger. “We would not have received that news if you would have just killed this man on the battlefield instead of taking him with you!”

“I beg your forgiveness, Sire,” Heahmund said. “I was certain that it was the right thing. I was certain that it was a sign of the Lord that I came across Ivar. I assure you, Sire, that I could not have foreseen those turns of events.” 

Or that Prince Aethelred would so easily and quickly give up this information - tortured or not. 

Aethelwulf was about to say something else as his wife stepped in. “My Love,” She addressed her husband in a soft voice. “We can not change the past. Instead of arguing we should focus on what we do next. If Prince Hvitserk knows now that we have his younger brother, he will not cease until he will get him back. He offered us to exchange our son for his brother and I am convinced that we should take the offer to save our son’s life.”

“And leave York to the heathens?” Aethelwulf barked. “No! Over my dead body, woman! He won’t be so stupid as to kill our son. He will continue to keep him prisoner in case he might need him or make use of him later. We are not negotiating with those pagans! We are going to execute his brother.”

“What?” Prince Alfred jumped in, pale in the light of the candles inside the tent. “No! We can not do this, Father! Why are we not at least trying to make use of Ivar like we intended to before we do something as drastic as this?”

“What do you mean?”

“I believe what the prince is trying to say is that we have successfully made this wretched heathen a pious monk. He even asked for baptism, Sire. I have seldom seen someone as committed to the Christian faith as Ivar is now. He has found peace in this new life of his and I do believe that if we send him to his brother now, he might be able to change Hvitserk’s mind and give up Aethelred. With Ivar on the inside of York, he might just do what we wanted him to do all along and spread the word of Christ so that those heathens might still be saved.”

For a long moment, it seemed like Aethelwulf was considering his words and his plea for mercy on Ivar’s behalf but then the king’s face turned into stone instead. “He will be crucified and his cross will be placed in front of the gates of York so that his brother will bear witness to his death. I allowed this madness to take place under my nose for far too long, Bishop. I knew his father, Heahmund. They are wretched, false creatures. Snakes. They are demons sent by the devil to mislead us. They can not be bargained with. They can not be trusted. Ivar dies. This is my last word.”

※※※※※※※

He could tell that something was wrong as Heahmund was summoned by the prince. Had Hvitserk finally made a move and decided what he was going to do with his prisoner? His brother had never been particularly good at making decisions on his own. He loved Hvitserk dearly but he recognized that his older brother had always been lacking guidance. He was not one to trust prophecy and had never gone to the seer to ask what his fate held for him and yet he was the one who asked the Gods for guidance more than the rest of them. His big brother had always been paralyzed with fear whenever he had needed to make a decision of his own. Deciding to go with Bjorn to the Mediterranean Sea thus had been a big step forward for Hvitserk.

The moment Heahmund had stepped out of the tent and started walking away with his boots making sucking sounds in the mud outside, Ivar had quickly gotten dressed in his cowl, sandals, and breeches before he tied his legs together with bandages. Whatever was going on right now, he felt it in his core that he should be prepared to make his escape. 

For a second he was certain that he had overdone it with his stories - that they had realized now that he remembered everything. Then again, if he would be able to convince Heahmund that he was on their side - on the side of _Christ_ \- regardless of his memories, maybe that would suffice to buy him some more time. It was a risky game he was playing, he knew that, but his father too had always been a man of risky plans. Once he had faked his own death just to get into Paris. 

Not for the first time he wondered what his father would think of him now after what had transpired between him and Heahmund. Had he not been ready to allow this Christian to fuck him tonight if Alfred would not have come in to stop them? What would Ragnar think of this behavior? Would he understand it? Would he judge him? Would he be disgusted by his actions? It wasn't even like he would be able to say that he had done these things as a matter of survival. He knew that Heahmund was fond of him and very willing to protect him even before their first kiss. There was a part of him that wanted to believe that his father would get it. He thought about Athelstan - his namesake as a Christian monk. 

Ivar had known the monk only for a very short while until Floki had murdered him out of jealousy. He had been four when the monk had been slain and his mother had never really liked it to have him near her children. In Aslaug’s eyes, Athelstan had already corrupted her husband and Bjorn. She had not wanted his influence on her own children - especially not on Ivar. 

Wasn’t it just ironic that he had been given this name after all this time? In a way, he thought sometimes that he could understand Athelstan better now that he had lived like him for a while, albeit he was sure that Athelstan had not been whipped and branded for no reason other than existing. Yet, he was sure that Athelstan too had faced great judgment and hatred from his fellow men after he had returned to England for a while and simply because he had lived among the heathens. Ivar had come to the conclusion that to those pious, God-fearing Christians, it did not matter whether or not someone was forced to live among the enemy or if they had done so out of their own free will. 

His father would surely find these latest developments funny. Ragnar had always had a strange sense of humor. He had been greatly amused by the irony of their Gods' plans. 

He was just about done with getting dressed as Heahmund returned to the tent. He had been running, judging by how out of breath he seemed to be. His eyes were wild as they met Ivar’s. A snake coiled in the pit of his stomach. Heahmund quickly bridged the distance between them and stopped in front of Ivar’s cot. Before he could do anything about it, the bishop grabbed both sides of his face and leaned down to kiss him with a hunger that Ivar had never felt before and left him breathless as the older man finally pulled away.

“What's wrong?” He asked with all the innocence that he could possibly muster right now. 

“You need to go.” Heahmund’s words came out in a breath, ghosting over Ivar’s face as they remained close. Almost he could pretend like he had not heard them - had it not been for the urgency behind them. 

“What?” He asked and his confusion was honest as he did. “What do you mean? What happened? Are we under attack?”

“No … it's … you are in danger.” _Ah_ , Ivar thought, _Aethelwulf wants to kill me_. “I need to confess something and you will hate me for what I have to tell you but it was the only way to keep you alive and safe so that you wouldn't become a bargaining chip between the king and the heathens. Everything I did, I did because I thought it was the right thing - you have to believe me.”

He seemed honest in the guilt he was portraying and Ivar felt for him. If Heahmund felt only a hint of what Ivar felt for the other man, he was certain that the bishop was being eaten up by dread. It was a small mercy as he decided to speak up before Heahmund could go on any further.

“I know,” He said calmly. Maybe it was stupid to reveal his cards so early but it pained him to see Heahmund like this and what point was there in pretending that he still believed the lies he had been fed? “I remember.”

“You…” For a split second, the other man looked as if he wanted to take a step back and his hands fell away from Ivar’s face as if he had been burned by this revelation. “You remember?”

“I do,” He then said with a small, amused grin. “I have to applaud you and your ilk for the idea. It was a cute idea and the name was a nice touch. A shame that it didn't last long enough, otherwise your plan might have just worked - or perhaps I am just too rotten inside by your God’s standards. So, I take it the prince spilled the beans to my brother and poor Hvitserk is now eager to get little old me back.”

There was no time for confusion and he could see it on Heahmund’s face how he realized that too and changed into battle-mode instead. Whatever feelings there might be between them, whatever this all may mean for them, it all could wait because Ivar knew already that Aethelwulf would never give him back to his brother alive. In that way, Aethelwulf was wiser than his own father, the late King Ecbert, because he knew that as long as Ivar was alive he would remain a threat. 

“The king wants to crucify you at dawn,” Heahmund then said, his face suddenly hard as stone, his eyes cold as he straightened his back. Maybe he had just realized that Ivar had played with him throughout the past couple of weeks. Perhaps he was questioning if even their shared pleasures had been nothing but a way of manipulating him. He didn't like the way Heahmund looked at him now as if he was staring at a stranger. Suddenly, it seemed, they were back on the battlefield. “We have to act quickly now. He expects me to deliver you to him. He wants to make a big spectacle of it.”

“Smart,” Ivar said with a shrug. “Hvitserk is soft. If I had the prince in my care and my brother would be killed in such a way, I would make an equal spectacle of the death of the prince but Hvitserk won’t do that. He would rather keep the prince alive - perhaps torture him a little, pull out some teeth, cut off some parts of him - and risk that he lives to escape.”

Disgust briefly flashed across Heahmund’s face and Ivar couldn't help but wonder if the man saw him with different eyes now, if he perhaps even regretted ever having touched him. He reached out to the other man to put a hand on his cheek as if to show him that he would not combust into flames from being touched by a heathen. “How are we going to escape?”

“We?” Heahmund replied and took a step back - out of reach for Ivar. A fist tightened around his heart but Ivar did not allow himself to show it. “You will escape, _alone_. I have to stay here with my king. I have a duty towards my people.”

“So we are enemies now, aren't we?”

“Yes.”

“Why are you trying to save me then?”

“We should hurry,” Heahmund said instead of answering his question. “We have to get you out of camp when the guards change in a few minutes.” Ivar knew when it was better to be quiet so he just nodded and maneuvered himself off the cot and onto the ground.

“Lead the way then.”

※※※※※※※

He had sympathy for the prince. They were roughly the same age with Aethelred being the older of them. Two sons of two kings who had been dragged into this war between Vikings and Saxons, between Christians and heathens not by their own doing but by circumstance. 

Sure, they were continuing their father's’ - and in Aethelred’s case grandfather’s - fights and ambitions but only out of a sense of obligation towards their kin. If it would have been for Hvitserk, he would perhaps never have come to England in the first place. He had never quite known where his own ambitions lay, unlike his brothers. Ubbe desired a quiet life as a farmer, to go back to their roots and live an easy life and have a dozen little Ubbes running around while he grew older and fatter. Bjorn wanted to see the world and discover new places. Sigurd was happy when he could play his oud but despite that Hvitserk had often thought that his younger brother would make a decent king. And Ivar … Ivar was a conqueror. 

Hvitserk, on the other hand, was just happy when he could fight and when the adrenalin was flooding through him. He liked the simple pleasures of life: battles, women, and alcohol. Not necessarily the stuff a true leader was made out of. 

“My father,” Aethelred said as they were sitting together in his cell. His hands were bound to the wall behind him and he was sitting on the ground with his legs outstretched in front of him. “He will not return your brother alive. He hated your father too much. It took much convincing that he did not kill him right away.”

Hvitserk made sure that his prisoner was well-fed and had everything he wanted but he had transferred him to the dungeon regardless. He sat across from Aethelred on the ground, mirroring his posture. As he looked at Aethelred now he thought that he might have found a kindred spirit in the young man. It was clear that his mother favored his little brother. He didn't know how the king thought about the younger prince but Hvitserk could make an educated guess despite the fact that Alfred was not the king’s son. He knew what it was like to live like that. Much like Sigurd, Hvitserk had often been overlooked by his parents. Ubbe had always shined much brighter than Hvitserk had - with his sunny smiles and his twinkling eyes, the image of their father. Ivar had been their mother's unrivaled favorite from the very beginning - perhaps even long before he had been born. Even Sigurd often outshined him. The people liked him. 

“I wouldn't blame him,” Hvitserk sighed. “Ivar is a massive pain in the ass.” He shared a crooked smile with Aethelred. “But he is still my baby brother and I want him back. I am sure you would want the same thing. So, what would it take for your father to give me back my brother?”

“You don't understand, Hvitserk,” Aethelred sighed. “You will not be able to change his mind. Your father greatly offended him back in the day. I don't know how or why. What I do know, however, is that my father is a man who holds grudges for a long time. His hatred for your kind and especially for your kin burns bright like the sun.”

They were silent for a moment before Hvitserk found it in himself to speak up again. “I wouldn't have come to England if it would not have been my duty as a son to avenge my father,” He then confessed. “Well … Honestly, I couldn't care less if it was my duty. My brothers decided we needed to take revenge and so I followed them. All my life I spent following my brothers, all things considered. I never really made plans of my own. I didn't care much about my father or his death. He abandoned us ten years ago without a word. My brothers, however, were adamant. Especially Ivar.” 

He breathed out a chuckle as he remembered Ivar’s determination and his insistence. His determination had always been the one thing keeping him going, the one thing that made the impossible possible for Ivar. None of them would have ever thought that he would be on the battlefield of any war and yet Ivar had proven them all wrong and shown them what he was made of.

“Ivar knew Ragnar the least but he idolized him the most. He didn't know how cruel our father could be. He didn't know how wretched our father could be. My brother Ubbe and I almost died during his raid in Paris. He didn't trust our mother so he brought us along. We were just kids but he brought us to a war camp in a foreign country and then our camp got attacked. It is a miracle we survived. Ivar never saw Ragnar like that. He only ever saw the legendary figure everyone was talking about. I don't care much about England either - or York for that matter. When I decided to stay, it was the first time I made a decision of my own and without my brothers’ guidance. I did it for Ivar. I did it so that Ivar’s sacrifice wouldn't be in vain but I would gladly give up York and England to get back my brother.”

“I wish I could help you,” Aethelred said and Hvitserk knew that he meant it. He could see it in Prince Aethelred’s honest eyes. 

Suddenly, there was a commotion outside the cell before the door burst open and revealed one of his men. “Hvitserk!” He sputtered. “Your brother! By Odin! Your brother is at the gates!”

**-End of Chapter 7-**


	8. Chapter 8

It seemed like a miracle that Ivar made it out of the camp during the guard change and that only because Heahmund actually started talking to the men and distracting them as Ivar crawled through the shadows, slithering over the ground like a snake. There was no long heartfelt goodbye, no time to spare for another longing gaze over his shoulder and their eyes did not meet one last time either. It left him feeling cold and dissatisfied after everything the bishop and he had shared. 

The truth was that Heahmund had been the one good thing during his time in the monastery - a light in the darkness, warmth within the cold cruelty he experienced from the monks and the abbot. He was certain that Heahmund felt the same way he did. This certainty was the reason that it hurt even more that Heahmund had looked at him as if he had only now seen him for the first time as all had been revealed. It felt as if Heahmund now saw the same monster, the same dirty, rotten, useless, crippled, flawed creature that everyone else had always seen in him. 

He should be angry but instead, he kept wondering if it would have been worth keeping Heahmund by his side to renounce his Gods and accept Jesus Christ once and for all. Maybe Heahmund would have even forgiven him for playing with him then. 

He kept crawling as quickly as he could, sticking close to the ground and keeping to the shadows. He knew, of course, that he didn't have much time. He knew that soon Aethelwulf would send his men after him and that he was at a severe disadvantage. He also knew that Heahmund would pay the price for helping him. Aethelwulf would know that Heahmund had helped him escape. The king was not a very forgiving man. 

It was this thought that made Ivar stop in his escape and then, lastly, turn back around and make his way back to camp. 

※※※※※※※

Bishop Heahmund of Sherborne was prepared when it happened. He was kneeling on the ground in between the two cots inside his tent, his sword before him, his hands locked around the hilt, the tip stuck in the dirt beneath his knees as he was praying for forgiveness. He knew that he had committed an unforgivable crime against his king and his God in letting the heathen go. Nevertheless, he hoped that God would still find it in Himself to forgive him. His crime was severe but his motivation had been pure. He had acted out of love and perhaps that was worse because his love belonged to a heathen who had played a game with him and betrayed his trust. Still, he did not find it in himself to be angry. It seemed fair that Ivar had played him for a fool, pretending to be something he was not in retaliation to the lies he had been fed at his most vulnerable time.

If nothing else, Hehamund could leave this world knowing that they were even now. He just hoped Ivar had made it to York safely by now. 

The sun had risen minutes ago and Heahmund still did not rise from the ground as he heard heavy footsteps approaching the tent. Somewhere in the world outside of the tent, King Aethelwulf was barking orders. Behind him, the flap of the tent was pulled to the side. There was no accusation thrown his way, no questions asked. The guards that Aethelwulf had brought along walked towards him and grabbed him under the arms to manhandle him out of the tent. Heahmund didn't fight it. He knew what was coming and he embraced it. It was the rightful punishment for his crimes.

To his surprise, he was not being dragged to the center of camp where he would undoubtedly find his end but into Aethelwulf’s tent. Inside the king took position next to his wife and son. Both looked nervous as Heahmund caught a glimpse of their pale faces. For a split second, he took notice of the red marks on the left side of Judith’s face which were suspiciously shaped like fingers. Aethelwulf, on the other hand, tried to give himself the air of calmness while underneath he was simmering with unbridled fury. The guards pushed Heahmund to his knees in front of the royal family before Aethelwulf waved them away. Only when they were outside, the king started speaking.

“You have been fraternizing with the enemy,” Aethelwulf stated and there was no reason nor way to deny it. “You know, Heahmund, I can not deny that I was suspicious of you from the very beginning. However, I decided to trust my wife’s instinct and gave you the benefit of the doubt. Now it is clear to me that I have been right from the beginning and that you are the snake that betrayed all of us. Tell me, how long have you been working with the heathens? Have they seduced you to their ways before they even took York?”

“Sire-”

“You speak only when I allow you to!” Aethelwuld roared and Judith flinched at the sound. “I have been watching you with that pagan, Heahmund. From the beginning, I was suspicious that there might be a different motive for you to take umbrage with my decision of killing him. As I said, I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, allow you to prove me wrong, but I could never quite shake the feeling that you and that heathen have become too close. Your visits at the monastery have become too frequent and even the abbot expressed his concerns towards me in a letter. Color me surprised, however, when I saw you with him - here inside this camp, right underneath my nose. Fornicating with a heathen, Bishop!” His words were like a punch in the face and he felt all color drain from his face. His stomach was in knots - and yet, there was a serene calmness that washed over him which he could neither describe nor explain. “I can not even begin to describe the disgust I feel when I look at you. You are a sodomite, Bishop, and the thought that I allowed you anywhere near my sons-”

“My Love-”

Aethelwulf’s glare was enough to shut the queen up. “You have gone against God, Bishop. You lay with another man like with a woman - like an animal. You shared a bed with our enemy - with the brother of the man who holds my son captive. I can only assume that you have been seduced by this cripple in some way, that he might have promised you power and status among his people. Have you forsaken our Lord too, Bishop? Are you following their Gods instead now?”

“No, Sire,” Heahmund bit out. “My loyalty belongs to the Lord - and only Him.”

Aethelwulf barked out a laugh at those words. “And yet you have betrayed the Lord. You have set Ivar free and allowed him to return to his brother. You have thus signed the death sentence for my son yourself. There is no reason why Hvitserk would return Aethelred to us now.” 

He wanted to tell him that Aethelwulf had signed his son’s death sentence himself when he had decided that he would kill Ivar. He wanted to tell him that Ivar’s death would have been answered with the slaughter of the prince and that it would have been his own doing. He kept his mouth shut, though. King Aethelwulf could not be argued with. He grew more and more paranoid now each day, distrusting even his own family. 

“You are the worst kind of scum roaming the earth, Bishop, not even worth the mercy of my sword or the purifying flames of the pyre. Yet, you have to die both for your sins and for the treason you committed against your sovereign. I have yet to decide on the matter of your death, however. Until I have come to a decision, you will be caged like the animal you are. You are furthermore stripped of your title and your position in the holy Roman church. I have deployed a messenger to Rome. You will be excommunicated by Pope Paschal for your heresy. You are nothing, Heahmund. A worm in the dirt.”

He kept his chin up as Aethelwulf ripped the cross from his neck and took his sword. He kept his chin up, as he was stripped out of his armor and left in his pants and shirt. He kept his chin up as he was paraded through camp under the disgusted looks and the sneers of his men - the same men that used to regard him with adoration, the same men he used to lead. He kept his chin up as they spat in his face and punched him. He kept his chin up as he was pushed into the cage that they would use for captured enemy spies. It was way too small for a man of Heahmund’s size and yet he did not say a word as he climbed inside and made himself small enough to fit.

He thought about Ragnar Lothbrok for a moment. He had not been there when the great heathen king died but he had heard the tale of his cage dangling over the pit of snakes. Ragnar had been a tall man as well, his cage much too small for him by design. It seemed a cruel twist of irony that he may be facing a similar fate now. 

Hours were ticking by of Heahmund being stuck inside this cage while the rest of the camp was going on about their day. The cage was at the very edge of the camp so that prisoners stuck inside would not see too much of the goings-on or interfere with the daily routine. Only once in a while someone came over to bark an insult at him or spit at him but other than this he was mercifully being left alone. No one wanted to come near him. By now, he assumed, the reason why he was in this predicament had made the rounds. 

As he sat there he wondered if his time with Ivar had been worth the punishment he was facing. He knew that he had no way of getting back into Aethelwulf’s favor and come back from this humiliation even if he would not be killed. There was no coming back from being labeled a sodomite. He would forever remain an outcast of society, abandoned by his fellow men and by God. All that for a few moments of pleasure with another man - with a heathen, with a cripple. Yet, no matter how hard he searched, he could not find regret in his heart. There was something about Ivar that had drawn Heahmund in from the very beginning, a familiarity that he could not quite explain. Ivar’s wit was a match to his own. Their understanding of the other man was on a level that not often needed words and yet he had enjoyed talking to Ivar for hours, never tiring of his voice. That voice that seemed so ridiculously soft for such a ruthless man.

He would have laughed about his situation if it wouldn't be so dire. Wasn’t it just ridiculous that he had to live forty years on this earth as a humble servant of God just to fall for a heathen cripple? Was his resolve really that weak? Yet, whenever he closed his eyes, he saw Ivar’s face burned into his retina like the image from a dream. He had done the right thing in setting him free. He knew it. The sun was already setting as Heahmund opened his eyes the next time. For hours, he had remained in meditation, trying to make peace with the world and his fate. He was not afraid of what Aethelwulf might come up with for him. He just wished to get it over with. As he opened his eyes, for a brief moment he was certain that he had fallen asleep and was dreaming as he stared straight into Ivar’s bright blue eyes. 

“You are awake,” The heathen said as if he had been watching him for a while without Heahmund noticing his presence. “Good. We don’t have much time.” Suddenly, Ivar’s hand came through the bars of his cage and it took Heahmund a moment to realize that he was holding the key to his cage in his hand.

“How-”

“Later,” Ivar hissed, the urgency clear in his voice. “Quickly! Get out of there.”

“I am not afraid to die,” Heahmund replied stubbornly and refused to take the key from Ivar’s hands. 

“But you don't _have_ to!” Ivar urged.

“There is nothing left for me now, Ivar. I am a disgraced man. I have been stripped of my achievements, of my titles, of my role in society. There is no place I could go now. It is best to embrace death with dignity instead of running like a coward.”

“Don't be stupid, Bishop!” Ivar growled. “Of course you have a place in this world! You will come with me. Stay by my side.”

“Among the heathens?” Heahmund huffed. “I would rather die than give up my faith.”

“I am not asking you to give up your faith, Bishop. I am asking you to live. Your God would not have allowed us to meet if he wouldn't want you to live. _Odin_ would not have brought you into my life if he wanted you to die!”

He was dumbfounded for a moment for the blunt honesty Ivar confronted him with yet again. He wanted to find arguments against what he was saying and even though there were plenty, he closed his hand around the key in Ivar’s fingers. He didn't wish to run like a coward from his fate, to be regarded as the Christian bishop who ran away with a pagan, and yet how could he say no to this? 

He knew that Ivar would not demand him to denounce his God, that Ivar accepted him and his beliefs without question and that was more than he could say about his fellow Saxons and Christians. Perhaps he really was just a coward. He made quick work as he pushed his own hand through the bars and maneuvered the key into the keyhole from the other side, his eyes intently trained on the camp. There were a few people out and about nearby but they had their backs to Heahmund as they were doing some target practice with their bows. It didn't take long until the lock clicked. Carefully, to prevent the door from creaking, he opened the door of the cage and slipped out. He stayed low to the ground as he quickly hurried towards Ivar. From here they could sneak into the lush forests of Northumbria.

They didn't speak a word as Heahmund was running and Ivar crawling across the ground much quicker than Heahmund would have ever deemed possible. He knew that it seemed ludicrous that they would be able to get far enough away from the camp until someone would realize that he had escaped but he would be damned if he wouldn't try - and not for his own sake but for Ivar’s. Ivar, who was risking his life to save him. 

York was not far from the campsite with only a stream and a patch of forest between the camp and the town but they both knew that they would never be able to get away quickly enough. “How are you planning on getting away until they start coming after us?” Heahmund addressed the other man through heavy breathing.

“I don't intend to get away!”

“What?”

“We wouldn't be able to!” Ivar huffed. “I have lived as a cripple for seventeen years, Bishop! I do in fact know the limitations my body puts on me. We are going to hide.”

“Hide? _Where_?”

“I spent enough time at this camp, Bishop, to know that Aethelwulf’s men never cared to scope out the forest properly. There is a cave close by. The entrance is hard to spot and it is getting dark. We only need to stay until nightfall, then they will give up their search and we can continue our journey.”

“How do you know all of that?”

“We are near the same spot where my father died,” Ivar bit out. “The pit is not far. I scoped out this area when we killed Aelle.”

He couldn't deny that he was amazed and surprised by Ivar’s resourcefulness. Then again, he supposed Ivar had to be resourceful to get this far in life with him being a cripple. He decided to trust him and follow his lead even as he started hearing the thundering of heavy boots on the forest floor and shouts echoing through the woods behind them.

He was just about to throw Ivar over his shoulder as the young man pointed at something just to the side. “There!” He called out and made his way over to where he was pointing even though Heahmund could not see anything out of the ordinary. A second later, Ivar had vanished out of sight. As Heahmund reached the spot where Ivar had vanished, he almost fell right through the hole in the ground that was half-hidden beneath twigs and leaves. It was just big enough for a man to get through without trouble and not as deep as he had suspected. Just like Ivar he had to get into the hole headfirst even as it went against his self-preservation instinct to go down into a hole in the ground without knowing what was awaiting him on the other side.

“Hurry, Bishop!” Ivar called from inside as Heahmund finally vanquished his doubts and just dove straight into the cave below. He had to crawl for a couple of feet until the narrow tunnel opened into a larger cavern. He could hear water nearby and realized that they were probably close to the river. Ivar waited for him with a smirk on his face, sitting on the ground near what looked like to be a burned-down campfire. 

“Where are we?”

“Right beside the river but the entry to the cave from that side is hidden by a small waterfall. So, we will get wet when we are going to move on from here.” Ivar chuckled. “I would make a fire but it is too dangerous. They could see the smoke going out of the hole we came in through or the shine through the water. At least we can get freshwater, though.”

He was speechless once more as he stood in the middle of that cave as it now finally dawned on him that Ivar had stayed around instead of fleeing to safety. “Why didn't you go to York?” Heahmund asked finally. “You could already be reunited with your brother right now. Why didn't you go? Why did you come back?”

Ivar stared at him out of wide eyes as if he was surprised, yes, even baffled by the question, and could not quite wrap his head around why Heahmund would even ask such a question in the first place. “Did you really think I would abandon you after you saved my life?”

“So,” Heahmund began as he sat down next to him on the ground. “This has been tit-for-tat?”

“If you want to see it like that,” Ivar replied with a lazy grin. “You owe me nothing - if that’s what you're asking.”

“So you forgive me what I have done? That I made you believe these lies?”

“There is nothing to forgive, Bishop,” Ivar said with a heavy sigh leaving his mouth. “I am not naive, you know? Aethelwulf would have killed me otherwise. You saved my life.”

“You have suffered under the hands of the abbot, though.”

“I did,” Ivar replied patiently. “And … if you really want to make it up to me for this … stay by my side. I would like for you to join me.”

“I can not fight against Christians, Ivar.”

“I am not asking you to. I would never demand such a thing from you. But you could be my adviser, help me see the things I may be blind to, make me understand what is foreign to me. My plan was not to take York and keep raiding until England has nothing left to offer and return home. My plan has always been to establish something for my people, give them land to live and farm and thrive on, and for that, I will need help. I have to learn the customs of this land and its people. It was my father’s wish to settle here and build something new and beautiful. I need you for that.”

He was aware that Ivar might be lying to him, that he was playing a game that Heahmund was unable to see through right now. Yet, he took Ivar’s hand and pressed a kiss to his knuckles. “I am at your service then, Ivar.”

“Careful now, Bishop. If you say it like this … maybe I will never let you go again.”

He acted on instinct, uncaring for the danger that they were still both in with Aethelwulf roaming these woods and the very real possibility that they could get found by him and his men. He reached out to Ivar and pulled him closer by the back of his head until their mouths crashed together once more. Heat was rushing through his body like the waterfall just outside their hideout. He was powerless against his own desire and so, it seemed, was Ivar. The young man was already pulling at his shirt and Heahmund gladly took it off by Ivar’s demand.

They made quick work of their clothes, eager to feel the other’s skin press against their own. The moment Ivar’s chest was exposed, however, Heahmund’s breath caught in his throat and his fingers immediately went to the burn mark on his chest, right above his heart. It hadn't been there when he had helped Ivar patch up the wounds on his back.

“What is that?” He gasped as his fingers gingerly stroked over the scar.

“A special little present the abbot gave me for talking to the prince,” Ivar mused with a huff but Heahmund found it not very amusing that he had been disfigured like this. It pained him to know that Ivar would bear the scars of his time at the monastery for the rest of his life and only because Heahmund had been so sure that he would be safe in the presence and care of those monks. He brought his lips down to Ivar’s chest as he pushed the young man onto the ground and kissed the scar tenderly. Ivar repaid him by driving his fingers through his hair, sighing contentedly at the touch as Heahmund moved further down. Gripped by a passion he hadn't felt in a long while, he brought his teeth down into the flesh on Ivar’s stomach, tearing a moan from the young man’s throat in response.

When he returned to Ivar’s lips their next kiss was sloppy and heated, all teeth and tongue as his hands kept roaming the heathen’s body. He didn't stop until he had him naked underneath himself on the ground.

It was not the first time that he saw the other man naked and he wished it wouldn't be under these circumstances but that didn't change anything about the fact that to him Ivar was perfect even as his cheeks turned pink and his gaze traveled self-consciously to his deformed legs. Heahmund allowed his fingers to brush over all the bumps and scars strewn all over those legs but Ivar quickly caught his roaming hands and pulled them back towards his chest instead. He didn't say anything but the insinuation was clear. He hated the sight of his legs, hated it when someone would touch them.

Ivar was a greedy kisser as he pulled Heahmund back up with strong hands and Heahmund gladly complied. Ivar’s hard cock was already digging into his stomach, pressing against Heahmund’s own manhood. It didn't take much to excite the young Viking. Ivar pressed upwards against him, hungry for more, desperate to have every inch of his skin touch Heahmund’s body. He maneuvered himself between Ivar’s legs easily as they fell open for Heahmund willingly, welcoming him between them. If there was any second thought, any restriction his mind put on him, Ivar didn't show any of it. 

He had nothing to ease the way as above their heads Aethelwulf’s men were roaming these woods and searching for them to kill them. Faintly he could hear shouts wafting through the thick woods of Northumbria. Perhaps it was the thrill of the looming danger that drove them to act on their instincts like this without much thought or finesse. Ivar didn't buck or fight him off or even voice any kind of discomfort when Heahmund pushed his hand between his legs and carefully pressed one finger against the tight ring of muscle. He only allowed a gasp to slip out as Heahmund breached him.

Heahmund had never been a patient man but right now was not the time to rush anything. And yet he tried to work quickly as he worked Ivar open. Ivar bit down hard on his bottom lip as he slowly introduced a second finger bending them just slightly as he was moving them inside and tearing a deep moan from Ivar’s throat in the process. With an amused grin, he put his hand over Ivar’s mouth only for him to bite his hand playfully. 

“Do it already,” Ivar groaned as he moved against him, impatient in his desire.

It was tempting to do as he said but Heahmund refused to rush things now that he finally had him like this even as his own cock craved to be buried inside of the other man. As he finally couldn't take it any longer he pulled back his fingers and replaced them with his manhood. Ivar inhaled a stuttered breath when the thick, blunt head nudged his rim and slowly started to push in. Heahmund moved slowly, pushing in with gentle, shallow thrusts, allowing Ivar to get used to the new feeling. It took all his willpower to fight the urge to just thrust all the way in, claiming Ivar as his once and for all and without a care for the Viking’s discomfort. Ivar tensed as he entered him but with a shuddering breath, the young man tried to relax a little more around him so that Heahmund could move deeper. 

He stopped moving once he was fully sheathed inside. Ivar clung to him as if he was the only thing in this world that made any sense right now. His fingers were digging into the flesh of Heahmund's broad shoulders, trying to get accustomed to the strange feeling of being so full. 

Eventually, Ivar relaxed around him, as Heahmund peppered kisses down his throat. Not an inch of space remained between their bodies now. Ivar allowed a quiet whimper to slip out between his lips as Heahmund started to slide out and push back in, repeating, again and again, his thrusts growing deeper each time but still going slow and steady, allowing Ivar to get lost in the moment. He could feel him relax around him with every thrust as he allowed pleasure to take him and silence that ever racing mind of his. 

“Do you trust me?” Heahmund whispered against Ivar’s lips and the young man had the audacity to let a chuckle slip out.

“What do you think?”

With a grin, Heahmund directed his hands down Ivar’s body again, driving them down his legs even as Ivar tensed before he grabbed him underneath his knees and then carefully lifted his legs up and placed them over his shoulders. The effect was immediate as he slid even deeper this way and Ivar let out a shuddering breath in response that spurred him on even further.

“By Odin,” Ivar groaned as his fingers started searching for anything to hold onto until he finally took hold of Heahmund’s hands instead, locking their fingers together as Heahmund started thrusting into him. 

Ivar’s body molded around him, welcomed him as if it was meant to do so, as if it had waited for Heahmund to lay claim on it. Ivar was endearing in his inexperience, endearing in his uninhibited nature that allowed him to let deep moans of pleasure roll over his plump lips. Forgotten was the world outside, forgotten was the danger lurking in these woods surrounding them, forgotten were Aethelwulf and his goons, forgotten was the very real possibility that death might await them just outside this cave, or that someone might be able to hear them. It would have been worth it, Heahmund decided as he buried himself deeper into Ivar. 

It was almost too much for Heahmund, the tightness of Ivar’s body, the shuddering moans that were rippling through the Viking, the immense power he held over him at this moment. Slowly, he started picking up the pace. He didn’t even pause as the head of his cock brushed over a small swell inside of Ivar, even as the movement made Ivar whine louder with pleasure. As he noticed the confusion on Ivar’s face, the question in his big blue eyes, he made it a point to hit the same spot again to drive the young heathen mad with lust.

“Heahmund-” Ivar breathed but his voice resembled more a choked whimper. He was beautiful like he was now - confused, completely out of his depths, following only his body’s commands and his most carnal desires. A sinner, just like Heahmund. 

“Come for me,” Heahmund encouraged with a wolfish smile, delivering another brutal thrust. Ivar did not disappoint as he let go of his restraints and allowed his body to be caught in a riptide of ecstasy, his cock spilling between them, hot sticky liquid landing on both their stomachs and chests as he helplessly cried out Heahmund's name. Heahmund claimed his mouth in a wet messy kiss, groaning when Ivar sucked his bottom lip between his teeth.

He fucked him through the last waves of his orgasm and didn't slow down once he calmed down. Instead, he sat up on his knees and gripped Ivar's legs firmly, pushing them up until his knees were flush against his chest, bending him almost in half. The next thrust elicited another deep moan from Ivar. He growled at the sound, his pace growing erratic and almost losing his rhythm. Heahmund groaned loudly as he buried himself to the hilt inside Ivar before emptying his load. At last, Heahmund collapsed on top of him, reduced to an animal once more but still careful to not place all his weight on Ivar. He sighed and captured his lips in a slow kiss that Ivar could barely return as he kept panting.

They stayed like this for a few moments until Heahmund finally untangled himself from the young Viking warrior and fell on the cold hard ground beside him. “Jesus…” He muttered to himself with a breathless chuckle. “It's been a long time since I last did that … I used to last longer than that.”

Ivar laughed quietly beside him. He looked and sounded absolutely wrecked and utterly exhausted. “Do not worry … we will have more than enough time and opportunities to work on that together…”

Maybe it hit him only now that he was truly going to follow Ivar. Not only to York until this war was over, but that he actually decided to stay with him, that he would follow Ivar no matter where he would end up going. What a scary thought to have. What an exciting thought to have.

“What are you going to tell your brother about me?” Heahmund asked, his gaze directed at the stone ceiling above them. It could come crashing down right now and he would die a happy man. “I am a Christian, after all. I am … I _was_ a bishop.”

“I am going to tell him that you are my pet Christian, of course,” Ivar huffed. “That I have grown fond of you and want to keep you.”

“Ah,” Heahmund breathed out followed by another deep chuckle that was echoed by Ivar. “So you have grown fond of me, huh?”

“One could say that.”

“Good,” Heahmund smirked. “Because I think that I have grown fond of you too, my pet heathen.”

**-End of Chapter 8-**


	9. Chapter 9

Seeing the walls of York brought forth memories that weighed heavy on his heart. The pit his father had died in was not far away. In fact, Heahmund and he would have walked past it on their way through the forest if Ivar had not made the conscious decision of walking around it on a different path even though this way it took them longer to get to York. The memory of his father broke his heart, to know that his father had died alone in that pit full of snakes. He should have been there, at his father’s side, dying with him or at least bearing witness to it. He also remembered the victories of their battles in England since they returned - victories that his brothers would not have had without him and his brilliant strategies. 

He paused for a moment as York emerged in the light of a new day, even though the clouds hung heavy over the town. Autumn was approaching fast now. Except for Hvitserk, all his brothers had left England after they had successfully taken and then defended York. It pained him to know that. It pained him to know that they had not searched for him or his body after he had been supposedly slain in battle. It pained him to know that, if he had really died, they would have thrown him in a ditch somewhere with all the other Saxon soldiers or burned him with all of those people. He wanted to believe that his brothers had done everything in their power to find him. He wanted to believe that they had spent days searching for his body in the aftermath of the battle until they had been forced to get rid of the corpses. He wanted to believe that they had been heartbroken about his supposed death. A part of him, that same bitter little voice in the back of his mind that had helped him remember one day at a time, told him that his brothers couldn't have cared less. 

Bjorn and he had never gotten along. He had never quite understood what it was about him that made his big brother disregard him with such arrogance all the time. When he was little, it hadn't been like this. He remembered Bjorn playing with him, carrying him around on his strong back, throwing him in the air until his mother had intervened in panic. His big brother’s attitude towards him had changed, however, as soon as Ivar had received his armring and he had never gotten an answer as to why. 

Ubbe had probably been relieved that he was gone and that he had thus been freed of the burden that Ivar’s existence had placed on him as his big brother. No longer had he needed to keep an eye on him. No longer had he been forced to keep him in check and make sure that he wouldn't do something brash and ruthless. He could go back to Margrethe and their weird little marriage. He would never quite understand what had driven Ubbe to marry that thrall. 

As for Sigurd … Well, he was sure that his brother had rejoiced at the news of his death. There really was not much to it, he supposed. Sigurd had always hated him. Sigurd’s hatred towards him was rooted in jealousy. They all knew that. Sigurd was jealous because their mother had loved Ivar more than she had ever loved Sigurd. And yet, Ivar had so often craved his big brother’s attention while growing up. He had been sitting at the window, safe and secure in a nest of pillows and blankets, watching Sigurd play outside in the sunlight with the other children and it had been Ivar who had been jealous.

Hvitserk had stayed though. Hvitserk had remained in York. To honor his legacy or to further his own legacy? This was the question that he still needed answered. 

“Ready?” Heahmund asked after a while. “I am sure your brother will be happy to see you, Ivar.”

He allowed a chuckle to slip from his throat at that. “Probably - but that is only because Hvitserk can be very naive. You’ll see. He is a bit like a puppy, you see? Growing up, he always followed Ubbe around like a trusty dog and did whatever Ubbe told him to. He has yet to learn to form an opinion by himself. Hvitserk has always been easy to manipulate but he is loyal to a fault.”

“You sound as if you hold little respect for your brother,” Heahmund replied, always observant of Ivar’s actions and words. There seemed to be little that Ivar would be able to hide from the other man. What a scary thought that was. In the past, he had always been several steps ahead of everyone around him. No one had ever been able to quite figure him out or begin to understand what was happening in his mind. It had made him superior to his brothers in a way that was different than just raw strength. It had set him apart from the rest of Kattegat, from the normal people. It had given him safety too because he had always been able to outsmart those around him. To have someone in his life who could match his intelligence and could even figure out what happened inside his mind, was both scary and exciting to him. “I am surprised to hear that.”

“You are mistaken then, my dear bishop,” He huffed with a small roll of his eyes. “I respect him very much. I love him very much. He was the one who taught me how to shave and who taught me how to keep my mead down. Unlike my other brothers, Hvitserk never told me that I couldn't do something because I was a cripple, he never treated me differently or like I was made of glass. But since I do love and respect him very much, I know his flaws better than most.”

“Well, now you are back to help him overcome those flaws.”

“Yes,” He laughed before another thought crossed his mind. “I wonder if Floki has left too…”

“Floki?”

“The best boat-builder in the world,” Ivar grinned before he started crawling again. He would have asked Heahmund to carry him but Heahmund was still recovering from his battle wounds and he was well equipped to handle himself, albeit being a little sore from their activities last night. After they had first started, it had been almost impossible to stop. The whole world had lost importance while they had been hiding in that cave, enjoying each other. It wasn’t long until they reached the gates and although the guards in front of it became hostile at first, they quickly recognized the cripple crawling towards the gate.

He was greeted like a king. The gate was opened for him without hesitation and cheers broke out among the warriors that were roaming the streets nearby. Quickly, he was lifted by rough hands and placed upon a cart to rest for a second as men patted him on the back and sang his praise. Heahmund, however, was regarded much more hostile and, the moment he followed Ivar to where he was sitting, one of the guards immediately pressed a blade to his throat.

“Stop it!” Ivar called out. “He’s with me. He’s a friend!”

The warriors looked at him with surprise on their faces before lowering their weapons and allowing Heahmund to sit down next to him on the cart. They exchanged a small glance and a grin before Ivar bumped his shoulder with Heahmund’s. “See? They are growing fond of you already.”

It didn't take long until he was met with a familiar face that was emerging from the crowd. “White Hair? Is that you?” He called out as the man strode up towards him. He could see how the man’s face morphed from an expression of bewilderment, to surprise and then into a huge, face-splitting grin. 

“Prince Ivar!” The man roared as he came to a halt before him. “That I would see the day you would return to us! We thought you had died!”

“I did,” Ivar smirked with a shrug. “For a while anyway. Would you be so kind and escort me and my friend to my brother?”

White hair immediately complied as he called his men over to help him. Within a matter of moments, White Hair had taken the reins of the horse that was harnessed to the cart, and the cart itself had started to move. 

Ivar still couldn't believe that he was back and even more so that he had been welcomed back so passionately already. He had never experienced much respect from his people and he harbored no illusions about the fact that the only reason they had paid him any mind was because he was a son of Ragnar Lothbrok. Cripples were abandoned in the woods or killed out of mercy and, in case they lived, they lived a life less than that of a slave, often confined in the pigsty or cast out in the wilderness. He had always known that he was lucky to be Ragnar’s son but never more so than since he had started to make a name for himself and realizing that the only reason why anyone would give him the time of day was his father. His time as a monk had hammered home that fact even more so. He had been beaten, abused, and disregarded, made fun of, and humiliated just because he couldn't walk.

“We need to celebrate!” White Hair said over his shoulder as they were making their procession through York. More men and women gathered in the streets to watch. Word was spreading quickly of his return. “We will give the Gods a great sacrifice tonight for they have led our prince home!”

“We can celebrate,” Ivar replied calmly. “as soon as we have taken care of the situation at hand. My return means nothing, my friend. We need to focus on keeping York and finding a solution to the siege King Aethelwulf has put on this town. We need to focus on the well-being, the growth, and the success of our people. That is far more important than me.”

White Hair hummed in agreement to his words while Ivar was being left surprised by the outpouring of love he suddenly experienced from his people as they came to the cart to greet him, some touching his shoulders or hands, some even patting his boney knees when he would pass by them. He had to look horrible for them to be so kind towards him. To them, he had survived weeks and months of captivity amongst their Christian enemy, and all of them were surprised to see the warrior bishop at his side, some even spitting on the ground as they passed by them.

“Don't worry, dear Bishop,” Ivar murmured quietly under his breath and sent him a small glance. “They will accept you among them soon enough. It's just that you-”

“Killed so many of them?”

“Yes,” Ivar chuckled. “But despite that, you have their respect. In my culture, men like you, great, mighty warriors, are respected and honored.”

“I am looking forward to that day,” Heahmund smirked in response. “Who knows? Maybe I will convert a few of your people.”

“Maybe,” He chuckled. “You can certainly try. Or maybe we convert you.”

“The Lord works in mysterious ways, dear Ivar. I will not fight against whatever fate he has decided for me.”

“You are a wise man.”

The cart suddenly stopped and Ivar was certain that it had gotten stuck in the mud or that there were too many people in their path but the real source of their sudden stop revealed itself in the sound of an all too familiar voice that rose above all others.

“Ivar?” The voice of his brother erupted from the crowd with boyish cheer. “Ivar, is it really you?”

Before he could even turn his head to find his big brother in the crowd, Hvitserk was right in front of him, his hands on his face, fingers tracing over his cheekbones and his jaw as if his brother had to touch him to realize that he was truly here and alive. His brother’s eyes were swimming with tears of joy before he kissed his forehead, his cheeks, and pulled him into a bone-crushing embrace that made his spine ache and his heart fill with love.

※※※※※※※

Growing up with three older brothers meant that Ivar the Boneless was used to very little privacy. He was used to sharing a bed with an older brother, he was used to bathing in the shallow water of a stream with them. Yet, he would have thought that, now that he was a man, he would at least be able to take a hot bath without his brother sitting just a couple of feet away watching over him. However, ever since he had returned, his brother would not let him out of his sight anymore. Ivar refused to let his Hvitserk’s presence stop him from enjoying the hot water or the herbs within it that made it smell nice and soothe his aching muscles. 

“A monk, you say?” Hvitserk laughed as he brought his cup back to his lips and took yet another sip of his wine. “You were a monk?”

“I was a monk, yes,” Ivar said and he noticed how his brother’s eyes kept coming back to the branding on his chest, and he noticed how he kept tightening his grip around his cup until his knuckles turned white. He knew his brother’s temperament well and thus he could tell that Hvitserk wanted to go and find Heahmund and kill him for what had been done to his baby brother. Hvitserk had been furious when he had helped him get out of his cowl and seen the scars on his back and the cross on his chest that he would forever bear as a reminder of the cruelty of the Christians. 

“I don't understand you, Ivar,” Hvitserk then confessed with a heavy sigh that made him slump deeper into the chair he was sitting on. “Why do you want to keep that man around? Why not kill him and make a spectacle out of it? You could crucify him or blood-eagle him.”

“As tempting as that might be, Hvitserk,” He replied, leaning his head back against the rim of the tub and letting his gaze wander to the flames inside the fireplace of his room. His hair was by now long enough to reach the water when he would sit like this. “Heahmund has been abandoned by his God, even though he can not see it yet. And he has no value left for his king, who wanted to kill him. He has been disowned both by the church and his king and he has no friends left among his people. Well, perhaps with the exception of Queen Judith and Prince Alfred. However, he can still be of use to us. He is a great warrior and he possesses a sharp mind. As soon as we have disposed of King Aethelwulf, he might be able to help us negotiate peace.”

“Peace?” Hvitserk replied with raised brows. “My brother Ivar wants peace?”

“I want _land_ , Hvitserk. I want to grow strong. King Aethelwulf has to die for that to happen, so another battle will be inevitable, I suppose. However, his queen and Prince Alfred are much more willing and open to negotiate with us. I want Northumbria, the land where our father died. I want a proper graveside for our father where the snake pit was. His name shall not be forgotten. If we take Northumbria, we are closer to home and our people can travel more safely. The land is big enough for us to establish settlements and grow. And, in time, we can go further up North.”

“You want to go North?”

“Into the lands of the Picts. I have heard a lot about them during my time at Aethelwulf’s war camp. They are wild people, uncivilized but their kingdom is vast. But we could also travel west to a land called Ireland. As long as we have a stronghold here in Northumbria, we have little limitations of where to go and what to do. We can grow and that is more important than taking on the rest of England - at least for a while. I am sure that another conflict will arise sooner or later, no matter who is going to succeed King Aethelwulf but when that happens, we will be stronger and our forces bigger.”

“I trust your decision, dear brother,” Hvitserk sighed. “you have been right so far, why should I question your mind now? I will send messengers to Kattegat. Our brothers need to know of your return and I am sure that they will come.”

“I am looking forward to it,” Ivar replied with a smile. It was the truth. He missed his brothers and he was glad to be reunited with Hvitserk again. “So tell me about our prisoner. You captured Aethelred. What is your plan?”

“Well, I would have exchanged him for you but since you are back now we might as well kill him, especially since Aethelwulf wanted to kill you. It's obvious that his son’s life means little to him.”

“Oh, I would beg to differ,” Ivar laughed. “In fact, I am confident that his son’s life means the world to him but his pride keeps standing in his way. Perhaps we should let him stir for a bit. He has to realize that Heahmund and I have made it to York by now and surely he now sees his son’s life in even greater danger than before. We should allow a few days to go by. Perhaps he will be more open to negotiations then. Perhaps _he_ will approach us with the wish for negotiation this time.”

“But you do not plan on killing Aethelred.”

“No.” He shrugged and watched the water ripple from the sudden movement. “We need him alive. If we kill him, I suppose his brother and mother would not be very susceptible to working with us after the king hopefully soon falls in battle. I have spent a bit of time around those people. Aethelred and Alfred are as close as brothers could be. Just as how you would have done everything in your power to save me, Alfred and Aethelred would do the same for each other. Perhaps we could bring Aethelwulf to fight one against one to decide this war. I am confident you could take him easily - especially because this man is too prideful to even consider the possibility that he might lose against you.”

“I’m honored,” Hvitserk laughed and emptied his cup. “Good. We wait then. First, we celebrate your safe return. Our people are already preparing a feast for tonight. I assume you want the bishop there as well?”

“Sure, he is an ally now,” Ivar said. “He’s the reason why I am still alive.”

“Good,” Hvitserk said and rose to his feet. “Do you need help getting out?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“Good … Good … I will tell Helga to come and have a look at you.” Hvitserk finally left him alone after a moment of hesitation. It seemed his brother was afraid to take his eyes off of him for longer than two seconds as if he was afraid he would vanish otherwise. As Hvitserk was out of the door, Ivar sunk deeper into the hot water and breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, he was safe. Finally, he was among his own people again. Taking on Aethelwulf seemed easy now that he was reunited with his brother and soon Sigurd and Ubbe would be here too.

※※※※※※※

Outside he could still hear the noise of the feast that would probably continue until the late hours of the morning. There was singing in the streets and barking laughter, as faint music wafted through the summer night. To his great surprise, Heahmund had been accepted with far more open arms during the feast than when he had first set foot into York at Ivar’s side. He could only assume that Hvitserk had spread the word of how Heahmund had helped his brother to survive and flee. All while being at the feast, Heahmund had received pats on the back and the shoulder and beautiful maidens had made doe eyes at him or smiled invitingly. He was not all too familiar with the Norse tongue and thus so much of what had been said to him had gone over his head. At least he had had Ivar there with him who had gladly helped him out on one or two occasions.

The Viking prince had looked marvelous tonight. His hair had been freshly braided and he had been wearing a simple blue tunic over a pair of dark breeches. Dressed like this he had not looked nearly as intimidating as he had the first time that Heahmund and he had met in York, nor had he looked as innocent as he had in the monk’s cowl. Most of the time during the feast, Heahmund das stayed beside Ivar and watched the scene unfold even as it had pained him greatly to see the church of York desecrated like this. 

He was lying in his bed, naked under the covers as he heard a knock on his door. Confused, he sat up in his bed and leaned against the headboard before the door swung open. Whoever it was did not care for his consent to come in and so Heahmund didn't need to see Ivar to know that it was him. Ivar was unsteady on his crutches as he slowly shimmied his way into the room and let the door fall shut behind him. 

“There you are, Bishop!” He called with a noticeable slur to his words. Well, he had been drinking quite heavily tonight. Immediately, Heahmund moved closer to the edge of his bed as he watched Ivar move towards him. It alarmed him greatly how the young man was swaying on his crutches and he quickly reached out to steady him as Ivar was within arms reach and not a second too late as Ivar tripped over the edge of the carpet next to the bed and lost his balance completely. He allowed a laugh to slip out at that unfamiliar clumsiness that made Ivar end up in his arms - not that he would lament that fact. 

“I think you might have drunk a little too much, _Prince Ivar,_ ” He huffed as he helped the other man to sit down beside him on the edge of the bed. Instead of staying there, however, Ivar dragged himself further onto the bed and sprawled out across the end of it like a cat in the sun. 

“I noticed you were gone from the feast already,” Ivar slurred. “I thought you might have gone with one of the thralls.”

“Is that jealousy I hear?”

“Of course not,” Ivar huffed. “I’m a Viking … There is no room for jealousy. Jealousy serves no purpose. My brothers all shared the same thrall once - not at once … of course … Although … Well, Hvitserk and Ubbe did. Ubbe married her and they shared her during their wedding night, so … there’s that I guess. Still … Jealousy is such a useless emotion.”

And yet, despite his words, Ivar had come all the way here to see if Heahmund was alone in his bed or not. He chose not to direct his attention towards that, however, as he instead laid down across the bed himself even as this new position meant that only very little of him was hidden beneath his blanket.

“Clearly,” He said instead with a smirk.

“Besides, I already know that you are mine,” Ivar replied. “I wouldn't mind you fucking some thrall … It's the natural urge of a man to sow his seed, I assume. It's what is expected of us.”

“I’m yours, huh?” Heahmund asked with a grin as he brushed his thumb across the scar on Ivar’s cheek.

“Are you not?” His gaze was challenging but there was something else hidden in those big, iridescent blue eyes that reminded Heahmund so much of the sea during a thunderstorm. With a soft smile, he dragged his thumb across Ivar’s jawbone down to his chin before he leaned in closer and brushed his lips against Ivar’s.

“What do you think, my Prince?”

The resulting kiss was slow and lazy and lacked any haste that had been there during previous encounters. There was a familiarity to it already that made it almost impossible not to sink deeper and deeper into the abyss. A part of him had silently hoped that his interest in the young Viking would ease after they had slept together but Ivar’s touch was still exciting, his lips making every hair on his arms stand up in response, his heartbeat like a war-drum against his ribcage. 

“You are drunk,” He chuckled quietly as Ivar pushed him onto his back and climbed on top of him to pepper kisses down his throat and chest. Not that he would complain.

“That I am,” Ivar breathed against his skin before he bit into the flesh of his stomach and shot him a playful grin. Heahmund allowed himself to just lay there and enjoy what Ivar was giving him as the young man seemed to have found enjoyment in dragging his tongue down Heahmund’s toned stomach as he was slipping further and further down his body and between Heahmund’s thighs. He couldn't help it that his manhood found a keen interest in Ivar’s touches and was already standing at full mast even before Ivar’s lips could reach it. Ivar’s own body seemed quite disinterested, however, and Heahmund was sure that the alcohol was to be blamed.

Ivar’s tongue was burning hot against his flesh as he licked his way up Heahmund’s length, from base to tip, placing one hand firmly on Heahmund’s hip to keep him from moving, his other hand gripping the base of his erection firmly. He watched, mesmerized by how the young Viking took a deep breath and circled his tongue around the plush tip of Heahmund's cock. It was evident that he had never done such a thing before. Heahmund wondered if he had seen it be done before - perhaps by that same thrall, his brothers had apparently all shared. He wondered if Ivar had had her too.

Ivar suckled almost experimentally on the tip, tasting and getting a feel for it on his tongue before groaning in approval and taking as much of the length as possible into his mouth.

Heahmund watched with widening eyes, lips parting as Ivar’s mouth stretched over him. It was the most glorious thing he’d ever seen, the wet, pale upper lip, dimples creasing Ivar’s cheeks, his brows furrowed and studious. 

“Ivar,” He groaned, his lips numb from the sight as he bit down on his bottom lip to stifle a moan.

Ivar hummed around Heahmund's girth in acknowledgment and started moving his hand in turn with his mouth, swallowing as he repeatedly lowered his mouth onto Heahmund. It was clear to Heahmund that he wasn't completely sure what to do, but Heahmund’s reactions seemed enough to guide him. Another low moan escaped him, a warning for the other man as Heahmund found it harder and harder to keep his hands to himself, to stop his finger from burying in Ivar’s hair and mess up his braids.

Ivar looked up at Heahmund as he pushed himself down further than he'd gone before. His lips practically rested around the base of his lover’s cock before he continued with more urgency.

At this, Heahmund couldn't keep himself back anymore. He reached out finally, one hand tangling in Ivar’s hair at once, pulling gently at the braids that had been done with such skill. He wanted to see his hair all messed up, wanted to see him look messy and disheveled - just like he had been in that cave. 

“Ivar,” His voice was dark, panting and rasping as he pushed himself up on his elbows, the warning clear in just this one word. Not that Ivar seemed to care. Even as he tugged at his hair with more vigor, the young man didn't seem to consider stopping. If anything, he doubled his efforts as he brushed his palms over Heahmund’s balls and cupped them lightly, glancing up at Heahmund, smirking around the girth. 

A part of Heahmund wanted to argue, to pull him off but instead, fingers tightened further in Ivar’s hair, holding him down as Heahmund’s body locked and arched, still sitting upright as he choked off a gasp in fear of who might hear it otherwise. The last he wanted was for Hvitserk to come rushing in and slicing his head off. He had to steady himself on the bed with his free hand, his feet firmly planted on the bed, his toes curling as he came in Ivar’s mouth at last. Surely, this act alone would mean a death sentence for Heahmund if Hvitserk ever found out about them.

Ivar groaned in response as Heahmund’s release filled his mouth only to swallow it to Heahmund’s horror and excitement. After that, the younger man all but crawled up Heahmund's body, the strands that had come loose from his braids now falling into his face as he kissed Heahmund, making the older man taste himself on Ivar's lips. If he wouldn't have come before, this taste would have driven him over the edge for sure. 

Ivar looked a little drowsy as they broke the kiss once more and Heahmund couldn't help but brush his fingers gingerly through his braids again, careful not to mess them up any more than he already had. He himself could feel the pull of exhaustion trying to drag him under but he was still a warrior, still a soldier, and unlike Ivar, he was not too drunk to know the dangers of being discovered like this, with Ivar in his bed. Surely, Hvitserk wouldn't react kindly to it. He would think that Heahmund had taken advantage of his little brother’s drunken state. He couldn't risk it. 

“Ivar…” He murmured as the young Viking just remained lying on top of him, utterly exhausted by the events of the day and the alcohol in his system. He seemed ready to fall asleep right then and there and, under different circumstances, he wouldn't have anything against it. “Ivar, if your brother catches us…”

“Hvitty?” Ivar replied drowsily, cracking one eye open even as it seemed a monumental task. “He wouldn't care. Ubbe would rip your head off but Hvitty doesn’t care about such things … You are in luck that Ubbe is not here yet…”

With those words, the young prince fell right asleep and Heahmund remained trapped underneath him for another moment before he breathed out a laugh. Carefully, as to not stir him, he shoved Ivar off of him and rose from the bed. He made his way to the door on silent feet, locked it, and returned to bed quickly. There was no use in carrying Ivar into his own room now, he told himself. All it would do was gain him the young man’s ire. So, instead, he peeled Ivar’s shoes off, took his splints off, and crawled back into his bed beside Ivar. 

As he lay there in the villa that the brothers had taken as their home, bathed in the pale light of a full moon while drunken singing was wafting through the open window with Ivar in his arms, he thought for the first time that he had done the right thing as he had chosen to warn Ivar and then follow him here. Perhaps it was God’s plan that they would be here together but perhaps it was Ivar’s Gods who had paved this path for them.

**-End of Chapter 9-**


	10. Chapter 10

It took his brothers almost two weeks to get to York. That had to have been expected, of course, since they had needed to sail further west to avoid Aethelwulf’s troops that were still besieging the town of York. The moment he heard the call that Ubbe and Sigurd had arrived at the gates with their troops, his heart jumped with excitement. He was in their new great hall, the old church, with Heahmund and Hvitserk as his brothers finally arrived. 

When all of this was over and done with, they would build a proper longhouse. Perhaps, he thought, he would allow Heahmund to build a chapel for himself. So far, Heahmund seemed perfectly content kneeling on the floor beside his bed to pray to his God. It reminded him almost painfully of his time at the monastery. It was true that, from time to time, he felt the urge to join Heahmund in his prayers. Sometimes, Heahmund had even asked permission to pray with Aethelred, and, disregarding the raised brows at this request, Ivar had allowed it every time. 

“They are here!” It was Vigrid the blacksmith who called out into the church and both Hvitserk and Ivar were startled by the shout. Not a second later, the figures of his two big brothers appeared in the huge portal that formed the entry of the church. Ivar was sitting on the steps leading to the altar as his brothers entered while Hvitserk was lounging on a chair and Heahmund sitting on a wooden bench - one of the few that had not been used as firewood yet. He watched how Ubbe and Sigurd took a couple of steps into the church before they stopped dead in their tracks, staring at him open-mouthed.

Ubbe was the first one to move again. He was in his face in a heartbeat, throwing his arms around him and lifting him off the stone steps to all but crush him with his arms. Ivar barely had the chance to react before Ubbe put him back down only to brush his hands all over him, turning his face this way and that, making sure that everything was still attached before he pressed a long kiss to his head and hugged him once more. “I can’t believe it,” He said breathlessly. “You are really here. Sigurd was convinced Hvitserk just lost his mind but you are here!”

By the time Ubbe finally let go of him to greet Hvitserk next, Sigurd was standing in front of him. The last time he had spoken to Sigurd, they had just been moving on from Ivar being on the brink of killing his own flesh and blood. They had never really been able to resolve this moment either. The ax had been in his hand and if Ubbe had not caught on and stopped him, he would have thrown the ax and killed Sigurd out of anger. Now, however, there was, for the first time in his life, no hatred in his brother’s eyes. In fact, after a moment of hesitation, Sigurd dove in for a hug much like Ubbe, pulling him tightly into his chest and squeezing him with much more force than he would have ever expected from Sigurd. In fact, Ivar couldn't recall that Sigurd had ever hugged him before even though they had shared the same bed all throughout their childhood. Sigurd let go of him a moment later but grabbed his face to press their foreheads together.

“It's good to have you back, little brother,” Sigurd said. “It was starting to get boring not having someone to fight with over the littlest things.”

Those words brought a smile to his face and he playfully hit his big brother in the shoulder before Sigurd too went to greet Hvitserk. Then, however, Ubbe took a much different stance in front of them as he caught a glance of Heahmund. 

“I heard about it,” Ubbe stated. “that you brought this warrior bishop along but to actually see it now…”

“Well, he was the one who stole me from the battlefield, I thought it would be only fair if I would steal him from his people.”

Sigurd barked out a laugh at that and pulled a chair over. Hvitserk already eagerly filled cups with mead for his brothers. 

“He was the one who kidnapped Ivar and you still let him live?” Ubbe then turned to Hvitserk as if Heahmund was not even there, but his brother only shrugged and said:

“It was Ivar’s decision, not mine. Besides, Ivar might be dead now, if Heahmund had not taken him that day. He would have been easy pickings for any footsoldier.” Ivar was surprised to hear his brother defend Heahmund. Then again, Hvitserk had had a fortnight to get acquainted with Heahmund and Ivar had already noticed that Hvitserk would sometimes eye them with unbridled curiosity and a look in his eyes that told him that Hvitserk knew a lot more than he let on. Perhaps he even knew about their relationship. If he did, he was not saying anything. “We are lucky to have the bishop on our side, Ubbe. He is a great warrior and he has been abandoned by his own people for helping Ivar escape their clutches.”

“I am not a bishop anymore,” Heahmund spoke up at last but for once there was no pain lacing his words anymore as he spoke about how he had been ostracized by his people and his church. Instead, there was confidence in his voice as he leveled Ubbe with one of those long, analyzing gazes - even though the Norse tongue was still unfamiliar to him. “I am, however, still a warrior. And I have insight into the mind of King Aethelwulf and his family. For quite a while, I was his most trusted confidant.”

“And how can we trust you?” Sigurd asked as he watched the bishop with unbridled interest now. “If you so easily betray the trust of your king? If it is true what you say and you were his most trusted confidant then you being here and willing to help us only speaks ill of your character and makes me question your loyalty towards us. What would it take for you to betray us the same way you betray your king?”

“He has not betrayed his king,” Ivar said in Heahmund’s defense. “Aethelwulf betrayed him. He did not trust Heahmund’s council. He is paranoid and he sees shadows everywhere. He does not even trust his own wife, his sons, let alone his own mind.”

“And yet he went against his king when he helped you.”

“Would you rather have it that he had not helped me, Sigurd? If he had not gone against Aethelwulf’s orders, I would be on a cross in front of the walls of this town now and the ravens would pick at my flesh. In saving me, he signed his own death sentence. So, I do think it is safe to say that we can in fact trust Heahmund.”

As Heahmund looked at him next, he could not quite hide the small, lopsided grin that was tugging at the corner of his mouth and neither could Ivar. Ubbe, for his part, allowed his eyes to travel between them back and forth for just a second before he cleared his throat.

“Good,” He said. “Let's get to planning on how we are going to dispose of the king then.”

※※※※※※※

“This bishop and Ivar,” Ubbe said as he sat down heavily in front of the hearth and next to Hvitserk on a flimsy-looking chair that was barely able to support Ubbe’s weight. “they make a peculiar pair. What do you think about it?”

“I am an open book, Brother,” Hvitserk replied with a smirk. “I already said what I thought about the bishop.”

“About the bishop, yes,” Ubbe continued. “Not about their rather strange relationship, though.”

“Well, you know Ivar,” Hvitserk chuckled. “He has never done anything the conventional way. He was a surprise from the moment he took his first breath and he will remain a surprise until he breathes his last.”

“They seem very close,” Ubbe then sighed as he took a sip from his cup. “Too close perhaps.”

Hvitserk knew exactly what Ubbe meant, of course. After all, he had spent some time with both Ivar and Heahmund now. He had seen how close those two were. He had seen the intimacy to their relationship, the familiarity in the touches they would exchange without even noticing it, the looks they would shoot each other and the comfort they seemed to find in the other. Hvitserk was very well aware that there was more going on between them than just camaraderie and friendship. By now, he had seen the bishop leave Ivar’s room early in the morning often enough to draw his own conclusions while those two seemed to think that they were very sneaky. He wouldn't say anything of that to Ubbe, though. This was not his secret to spill and Ubbe would figure it out soon enough, he would assume. 

“Do you think the bishop influenced Ivar?”

“He was his captive, after all,” Ubbe replied but his words were lacking conviction.

“And do you honestly, whole-heartedly think anyone would ever be able to influence our brother? Do you think that the bishop will turn him against us? Or that Ivar might be double-crossing us?”

“I don't know,” Ubbe confessed. “It's just … too good to be true that he is here now - alive, I mean. He has spent months in captivity and now you expect me to believe that outlandish tale of Ivar living as a monk for that time because he has lost his memories but regained them in time to return to us?”

“Stranger things have happened,” Hvitserk sighed. “And who are we to judge the ways of the Gods? I have spent the last fortnight with Ivar, Ubbe. I can assure you that our brother is still the very same annoying little bastard that he has always been, although I have to say that the bishop seems to have a calming influence on him. He is the only person I have ever seen who is able to make Ivar see reason.”

“But what if he is adding oil to the fire?” 

“We’ll see about that.”

Ubbe was quiet for a long while as he seemed to hang after his own thoughts of the day’s events. It surprised Hvitserk when he spoke again. “They are sharing a bed, don’t they? Ivar and Heahmund.”

Hvitserk looked at him from the side but it was clear that Ubbe had already seen the signs and so he sighed and allowed his head to loll back against the backrest of his chair. There was no point in lying. “It is more than that, I think. I think Ivar loves him.”

“And Heahmund?”

“I think he loves Ivar too. The man was willing to give his life to spare Ivar’s, after all.”

Ubbe breathed out a laugh at that. “It does take a brave man to fall in love with someone like our little brother,” He then sighed. “Who would have thought that Ivar would someday find his match? I remember how … livid he was after Sigurd told us about his ruined night with Margrethe … I felt sorry for him. I would have never thought the day would come that I would be happy my baby brother would lie with another man but here we are.”

Ubbe directed his gaze back at the fire and the flames cast shadows on his face. He looked older that way and a whole lot more like their father than he already did. It was true that Ubbe was his father’s reflection but Ivar had his mind and that could never be underestimated. The only thing Hvitserk feared now that he had his brothers back was that there would be a war between them, a war provoked, perhaps by Ubbe’s inability to accept Ivar the way he was or challenge his sharp mind and his leadership qualities. 

“Ivar has proven himself,” Hvitserk then said. “I think we should put him in charge of our quest against Aethelwulf.”

“Yes,” Ubbe said to his surprise. “I think you are right.”

※※※※※※※

Aethelred was in remarkably good spirits for someone who was being held captive for weeks now. He was sitting at the hearth in his room and had a book in his lap. The Bible - Ivar noticed with disdain. Well, Ivar thought bitterly, he had not received any physical punishment after all. He had not gotten lashes or a cross burned into his skin. He was being fed and held in a nice room, he got everything that he could possibly need. Also, as Ivar had noticed with great surprise these past two weeks, Aethelred had seemed to have warmed up to Hvitserk. He had seen his big brother visit the Saxon prince a couple of times now. Perhaps he had listened at the door to them talk as well - but he would deny that to his dying day, of course. As Ivar dragged himself into the room on his crutches he was followed by his brothers and Heahmund like his own private army. The ex-bishop quickly pulled a chair over for Ivar so he could sit down at the fire beside the prince. 

He could already tell that they wouldn't get very far with Aethelred. The young man wanted this war over as much as they did but he was loyal to his father like Ivar had been loyal to Ragnar. 

“So,” Ivar addressed the prince. “I think we can both agree that we want this siege and this war to be over. So, let's talk about how we can achieve that together.”

“My father will never give you what you want, Prince Ivar,” Aethelred said with a sigh. “You already know that. He was even willing to sacrifice me when it meant he would get to gain York back from your hands. My grandfather would have been willing to negotiate a peace treaty with you but not my father. He wants to prove to himself and the whole of England that his rule can withstand an attack of the heathens. He would rather die out there in his camp and have his whole family die as well before giving up.”

“I got to know your father quite well while I have been your captive,” Ivar replied and though there was no sharpness to his voice, his eyes betrayed his emotions like usual. He knew that. He didn't need his brothers to gleefully point it out for him. “And I agree with you. However, I do not wish to hear what your father thinks. I wish to hear how _you_ think about our offer. We only want Northumbria in exchange for not invading any other part of your beautiful land. The climate in Norway is rough, the winters are long and hard, farming is an awful job there. We want to secure good, fertile land for our farmers so that our people can thrive. That is all we want, that is all our father wanted. My brothers would agree with me when I say that we are owed land after your grandfather betrayed my father and sent out _your_ father and his men to destroy our settlement and kill our unassuming farmers. Taking Northumbria in return is a small but fair price for this disgusting betrayal. I think that you are a man of honor, Prince Aethelred. You have treated me well and with respect even though I was just a crippled monk during my time at your camp. I think we can agree that what your father and grandfather did was neither honorable nor right.”

Aethelred seemed to think about it for a moment before he leaned forwards on his own chair, the bible now resting on his legs as he was bracing his arms on his knees. “I agree with you, Prince Ivar,” He said, his gaze intense as he kept his eyes trained on him. “Much of the horrors that came to this country could have been avoided if my father and grandfather had not betrayed the arrangement that they made with King Ragnar. This decision brought great pain and suffering to this land and our people. However, it is of little importance what I think about this situation for I am not my father and I am not the king.”

“But you will be,” Ivar then said. “When your father dies. A paranoid man is a man who can not think straight and a man who can not think straight will always be at a disadvantage in battle. I can assure you that the next battle will come - or maybe I will send one of my brothers to challenge your father in a fight to the death. We both know your father would not survive in either scenario. However, we do not wish to shed more blood - neither that of Saxons nor that of Northmen. We want what is owed to us.”

“You will not be able to get my father to retreat and sign over Northumbria. He will need to die for that to happen.”

“Exactly,” Ivar smiled. “All I want to know is what your plan of action would be if that were to happen. I understand that you have to be loyal to your father but-”

“My father decided that continuing the siege just to save face and not look weak was more important than my life, Prince Ivar,” Aethelred suddenly cut him off with a sharpness and bitterness to his words that Ivar had not heard from the prince before. “I have seen your father when you and he came to our house. I have seen how much he worried for your well-being. Your father would have given everything up, even his own life, if it meant his son would remain unharmed. My own father has lost himself to his own paranoia and his drive for power. I worry for my mother and my younger brother. If I had to do it, I would kill him myself but that is not something I could ever do.”

“I understand,” Ivar said. “Then he will die in battle. It will please the Gods.”

“I will fight Aethelwulf then,” Ubbe decided as he spoke up for the first time since they had entered the room. He was surprised that, so far, none of them had claimed the leadership position or tried to take it from him. He would have expected Ubbe to take over from him. After all, Ubbe was the oldest of the four sons of Aslaug and thus they, as his little brothers, should be obedient to his authority.

“No,” Ivar replied. “No … Hvtiserk has to do it. This town is his, Ubbe. You and Sigurd left him to defend it and he did. It is his.”

“But-”

“I have no interest in ruling, Brother,” Ivar huffed as he turned to look at Hvitserk, cutting off his protest before he could even try to articulate it. “Not yet, at least. I have seen too little of the world and my ambitions are telling me to go West.”

He was surprised to not be met with arguments from his brothers. If there was one thing that seemed obvious about them as a family it was that they were all quite headstrong and argumentative. He could not recall a single day of his childhood where they had not argued or fought about petty little things - in the end, however, they had been thick as thieves.

“It is decided then,” Hvitserk said with a small nod, giving up the fight with his little brother before it could develop into one. Apparently, Hvitserk had gained some wisdom during Ivar’s absence. “I will send a messenger challenging the king to a fight by sunrise tomorrow.”

However, it should not get this far as thundering steps echoing outside in the corridor was the harbinger of news to come. Ivar felt like the news that would be brought to his attention would be crucial to the outcome of the war with Aethelwulf. And he would not be disappointed as the door to the room was pushed open to reveal White Hair, panting after he had apparently run all the way from his station to deliver the news personally.

“The King is dead!” The man called out and it was like lightning striking them all right where they stood.

※※※※※※※

A bee had killed the king. Heahmund would have laughed if it would not have been so absurd. He could tell by the way Ivar’s eyes kept staring into the distance, that he too very well knew that the king had not been slain by a bee. He could not quite decipher, however, if he was happy or not about this development. Of course, it made their situation a whole lot easier. He watched Ivar bring the cup to his lips and take a sip from his wine as they sat around the fire. His brothers too were silent. A group of their men had escorted Aethelred - now King Aethelred - out of York and back to his camp. Tomorrow they would negotiate with the new king.

“The Gods have blessed us,” Ivar finally spoke as he had come to a decision on the matter. “They have taken this fool from our hands so that we do not have to worry about him any longer. Yet, it is quite unsatisfactory to me, I must say. I would have liked to see him slain in battle by my valiant brother. It is an end unbecoming to a great king.”

His brothers grunted in agreement and now it was on Heahmund to clear his throat and take a sip of his wine. “If it helps,” He offered the group of Vikings. “I do not think he was killed by a bee, Prince Ivar.”

“Who are you suspecting?” Ubbe asked and raised his left eyebrow. Ubbe had a weird way of holding his head, Heahmund had come to notice. Sometimes the tall, burly Viking, had more in common with a puppy when he would tilt his chin down, his head slightly leaning to the side and his eyebrows drawn together or rising up like now. He had never known Ragnar personally but people kept telling him that Ubbe was the spitting image of his father. If that was true, Ragnar had surely been a handsome man. Then again, all of his sons were handsome in their own right.

“The queen, of course,” Ivar chuckled as if he was reading Heahmund’s mind. His eyes were sparkling with mischief and silent admiration for the queen. “He has not treated her well lately. I've heard them fight many times while I was at their camp. He had little respect for her.”

“Yes,” Heahmund sighed. “That is, sadly, very true. Queen Judith is a powerful and wise woman. She has learned a lot from King Ecbert and yet her husband disregarded her council many times. If he had not done so, the war might have had a different outcome altogether. Queen Judith, however, is also very versed in the handling of poisons. She has learned the art of healing people and we all know that hands that heal might as well inflict pain. I can only assume that she had had enough of her husband's unwise decisions which have put her oldest son’s life in peril.”

“The king was a fool not to heed his wife’s advice and Queen Judith must truly be a wise woman then,” Hvitserk said. “She has slain a dragon.”

“To Queen Judith!” Ubbe grinned and raised his cup and his brothers quickly joined him. Soon shouts of _‘Hail Queen Judith’_ erupted through the desecrated church of York.

That night, when Ivar joined him in his room again, the young man was insatiable and the sun was almost rising on the horizon when he fell asleep at last next to Heahmund. He watched him sleep, amazed by how young he looked in his sleep, how peaceful his slumber truly seemed now that the worst seemed to be over. Ivar trusted that Aethelred would keep his word and Heahmund hoped that he had not misplaced his trust or let the young king go too soon.

※※※※※※※

Fog lay over the heath between York and the camp of the Saxons in the early morning hours of a new day. A single large tent had been erected in this no-man's-land between the warring factions. In the center of the tent stood a mighty oak table and on it lay a roll of parchment, next to it a quill and a pot of ink. Only two chairs were placed on either side of the table. A crippled prince was sitting on one side and a young king on the other - the weight of his new crown still heavy and uncomfortable on his head. Behind the king stood his mother and his younger brother. Behind the crippled prince stood his own three brothers. A notary was watching over the proceedings to witness the legality of the exchange.

“I will sign over the rights to the land of Northumbria that formerly belonged to my grandfather King Aelle to you, the sons of King Ragnar Lothbrok,” Aethelred said. “As a sign of my wish to remain peaceful with you and your people and as a sign of indemnification for the crimes that my father has committed against your people in the name of the late King Ecbert. You are from here on free to settle in Northumbria and rule it as your kingdom, so that we may have a fruitful relationship between our people. However, to that, I will attach the condition that your people will prescind from raiding any other part of our lands. We may coexist peacefully only if my peasants do not have to fear further attacks from your people.”

Ivar was silent for a while and for a moment Hvitserk was concerned that his brother would, at the very last minute, decide against the treaty and perhaps attack Aethelred and his family. It would not surprise him. After all, they had the royal family right here in front of them on a silver platter and if Ivar would strike now, England was without a ruler and ripe for the taking. Ivar, however, at last, nodded.

“I agree to your terms,” He then said. “Northumbria will be a home for my people, close to our own homelands and thus a safe haven for those who want to build a better life. I am sure that our friendship will be fruitful, King Aethelred. Furthermore, I would like to extend a hand in the spirit of this new friendship. There will be others who see England and want to take it. I offer you our help. The help of the sons of Ragnar if the day might come that you need it to fend off invaders.”

Aethelred seemed just as surprised as his mother and his brother, but at last he extended his hand towards Ivar and Hvitserk watched on how Ivar took it to shake on their deal before Aethelred hastily signed his name on the parchment before him. The notary then turned the parchment towards Ivar and handed him the quill. Hvitserk was not surprised as his brother signed his name in the Latin alphabet. He had learned a lot during his time as a monk, as it seemed. Only as the document was signed and sealed, Ivar looked at the king again, a wicked gleam in his bright blue eyes.

“There is one more thing I wish to ask for,”

Aethelred immediately grew uneasy and the queen placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Say it,” Aethelred said. “And it will be done.”

“I want the head of Abbot Ealhfrith,” he said. “And I want my friend Heahmund to be reinstated as a bishop of his church.”

Before Aethelred could say anything his mother bowed her head slightly before she spoke. “I understand your desire for revenge better than anyone else,” She said and the flicker in her eyes told Hvitserk clearly that Ivar’s theory was right. She had taken her revenge on her husband. “And it will be done. I heard of the things Abbot Ealhfrith has done to you during your time under his protection and it is unforgivable that he has lashed out on you as he has. God does not approve of his methods. We will deliver the Abbot to York and you will do with him as you please. However, I am afraid that it is not in my son’s power to reinstate Heahmund as a bishop. He has been excommunicated by the Holy Roman Church itself. The pope would need to reinstate him and I do not think he would as long as Heahmund stays by your side and does not repent for his sins to return into the fold.”

For a moment Hvitserk felt like he was missing a part of the conversation the way Ivar held Judith’s gaze before he slowly nodded in understanding. He wondered if the Queen knew the true nature of Heahmund’s relationship to Ivar. His brother seemed lost in thought for a moment, busy sorting through this new information before he placed an easy smile onto his face again.

“We should drink then. To our new friendship and to new beginnings.”

※※※※※※※

“The queen said that, if you would repent for your sins and leave my side, it might be possible for you to be reinstated as bishop and be welcomed back into the Holy Roman Church.” Ivar said as he was lying in his bed on his side and was slowly dragging his fingers across the naked skin of Heahmund’s chest. Sweat was glistening in the pale light of a full moon and Ivar took in his scent greedily. Perhaps, he thought, it would be the last time he would be able to.

“What do you want to say, Ivar?” Heahmund hummed, his pale blue eyes meeting Ivar’s as he pulled him closer against his side and buried his nose into Ivar’s hair for but a moment. “Speak your mind freely and openly like you always do.”

“I am just wondering,” Ivar sighed. “If this is what you want if you want to return to your church and your old life, I would let you go. I do not want to force you to stay, I do not want you to resent me one day for taking this from you. I do not want your heart to be broken or for you to be at variance with your God. Tell me now and you will be free to go. I will not stop you. I want you to be at my side out of your own free will or not at all.”

Heahmund was silent for a long while - so long in fact that Ivar’s heart almost stopped beating so sure was he that Heahmund would leave him now. Then, however, the older man sighed heavily and pressed a kiss to his forehead. 

“You did not take anything from me, Ivar. The choices that brought me here were mine and mine alone. You are not to blame and I do not regret them.” And still, there was a sadness to his tone. Perhaps he was mourning his former life - or the future ahead of him. “It is true that my heart aches sometimes when I think of my God and yet it is also true that I feel freer now than I have ever felt before. I am a warrior at heart and always have been. It has been my father’s decision that I would join the cleric and it has been my choice that I would do so as a warrior priest. The role I had in the church was often stifling to me, as if I have been put in chains. I loved my work and I loved helping the people but often I ask myself if I really helped them at all. I instilled the fear of God in them, that is all I did. The more I hear about your Gods, however, I am envious. Your Gods are full of love and tenderness for us humans. They do not judge for what is inside your heart. I came to the conclusion that perhaps the Alfather is no different from God but rather that they are one and the same.”

“Bishop!” Ivar exclaimed playfully. “That is rather blasphemous of you to say.”

“Perhaps it is,” Heahmund laughed softly. “what I am trying to say is that I will stay by your side until you tire of me.”

**-End of Chapter 10-**


	11. Epilogue

The sound of the needle being knocked into skin was like music to his ears but this time it was not his own skin that was being graced by the ink. He sat on a barrel and watched with great amusement how Heahmund was gritting his teeth against the pain as the needle was penetrating the skin of his back. Ivar Ragnarsson couldn't help the grin tugging at his mouth at the small grunts that were escaping Heahmund’s throat every now and then while around them at the harbor, life was in full swing. 

“Watch out,” Heahmund said through gritted teeth. It was meant to sound like a warning but it only served to further Ivar’s amusement. The Norse language was still heavy on Heahmund’s tongue and more often than not he chose the wrong word or pronounced things rather strangely. At least, Ivar thought, he was trying to learn and adamant to get better at it. The other night, Ivar had teased the Christian about it, asking him if he was trying so hard because he was tired of having only the sons of Ragnar to converse with. “Or I am going to wipe that grin off your face.”

“I am trembling in fear,” He grinned, even as he noticed the way the man who was doing Heahmund’s tattoo looked up at his customer’s choice of words while talking to one of the four Viking leaders. “You are almost done, you’re doing good.” He then extended his cup of mead to Heahmund who accepted it without hesitation to gulp down the rest of it. Again, the man shot both Ivar and Heahmund a look of irritation but Ivar didn't pay it any mind. No one outwardly questioned his relationship with Heahmund anymore. They all knew better than to talk about it or make comments about it and most of the Northmen had accepted Heahmund within the months that had passed - even though there were still a few that were calling Heahmund Ivar’s pet.

As Heahmund got up from his chair at last and presented his back to him, Ivar was impressed by the line of runes running down Heahmund’s spine. He had to rein himself in to not touch the reddened, bloodied skin. He would have plenty of time tonight to do that - of course only because someone had to look after the fresh tattoo and what kind of a friend would Ivar be if he wouldn’t look out for his good friend? He remembered getting his first tattoo and how Ubbe had taken care of it so that it would heal properly. It was a miracle that the skin had not gotten infected during his time at the monastery. The ink had still been fresh and now the image on his back was ruined by the scars.

“How do I look?”

“Like a proper Viking,” Ivar laughed and smacked his hand against Heahmund’s back just to make him jump. “Now you only need to grow out your hair!”

“Never,” Heahmund hissed and pulled his linen shirt back on. “Heathen.”

It was a sunny spring morning as they were making their way through the streets of York. The town was blossoming now almost a year after they had first taken it. The streets were clean and the people were thriving. As they were strolling through the Coppergate Market his nostrils filled with the scents of spices and herbs, of fresh meat and fish. People were arguing about prices, others were laughing as children were running around lost in their own little world and their games. A group of young mothers was sitting together near a well, nursing their babies. The first babies born in York. He had a smile on his face as they were moving through the hustle and bustle of the ever-growing town. Outside of the Roman walls of York, their farmers had started to settle and the harvest promised to be rich and plentiful. 

“It seems a miracle, does it not? That everything turned out like this,” Ivar then said as he glanced at Heahmund from the side. It were moments like this when he wished he would be able to take his hand. Then again his crutch would make this quite difficult anyway. At least it was a good day today. The pain was manageable. Last winter he had been bed-ridden for almost an entire month thanks to his illness and Heahmund and his brothers demanding him to stay in bed. His bishop was no longer wearing his cross around his neck. He didn't know that Ivar had it in his pocket ever since he had taken it off, securely placed in a small leather pouch just in case Heahmund would ever want it back.

“Perhaps not one of God’s miracles,” Heahmund replied. 

“No?”

“No,” he sighed but there was a small smile tugging at Heahmund’s lips. “A man-made miracle. A miracle made by you - and your fearless brothers.”

“And my fearless bodyguard?”

“Him too, perhaps,” Heahmund laughed. “But he was just someone unable to step away, curious of what his path would hold if he would stay at the side of Ivar the Boneless, Ivar the Great.”

“I am not yet Ivar the Great,” He mused.

“But you will be. As soon as we have reached Ireland and taken it for you.”

“You seem very confident about that. Has it ever occurred to you that I may fail in my quest?”

“Have you ever failed in your quests?”

“There is always a first time for everything, dear bishop.”

“Mhm…” He couldn't help the laugh escaping his throat at the soft hum coming from the back of Heahmund’s throat. Oh, how much had he come to love this sound! He could see the newly built longhouse in the distance watching over the town of York and the people working diligently. His brothers were waiting for him. There was a lot to discuss, a lot to take care of and the excitement was simmering just underneath the surface.

A part of him had expected his brothers to leave, to go back to Kattegat again after their situation here was sorted out. Instead, Ubbe and Sigurd had surprised him once more as they had decided to stay and aid him and Hvitserk in their further conquests. Sigurd would take over Hvitserk’s duties when they would set sail for Ireland in a couple of days and, with Bjorn returned to Kattegat, their home was secure too. One day, he thought, he might just go back to take his revenge on Lagertha but the bloodshed this would provoke between him and his brothers was maybe not worth it. He had no real interest in Kattegat anyway. What did Kattegat mean compared to a town like York? Why would he be interested in Kattegat when he had so many other places to conquer and rule over?

They were walking through a shadowy alley, the sounds of the town far, far away as Heahmund suddenly pushed him against the wall to his right-hand side and kissed him. Ivar barely had time to catch himself on unsteady legs, his crutch slipping on the mud, his back crashing into the wall behind him. None of that mattered, though, not with Heahmund’s lips upon his. Lately, he found himself more and more often thinking back at his time as a monk. It had only been months ago that he had been through all of this and sometimes it felt like it had only been yesterday. He was still shaken awake by nightmares sometimes and then he would find Heahmund resting next to him, fast asleep and he would remember that he was safe.

Still, it was hard to shake off such horrors. When he had been ill last winter, weighed down by his sickness, his eyes like spilled ink and worn down by pain and muscle spasms as bad as the one during his childhood when every growth spurt had broken his bones anew, he had often been incapable of separating the reality of his life here at York with the memories of the monastery. He remembered waking up, muttering the Lord’s prayer under his breath, desperate to get out of his bed to kneel beside it on the cold hard ground until someone would have put a stop to it. Every time he would hear the sharp sound of a whip hissing through the air he would still flinch and until now he could not stand the smell of burning flesh.

Seeing Abbot Ealhfrith’s head rotting at the gate of York provided only little comfort to him at those times. The man had not nearly suffered enough. However, it was Heahmund - always Heahmund - who managed to pull him out of these nightmares. His kisses, at times burning hot, at others slow and sweet as honey, possessed the magic of healing all his wounds it seemed. Even now as he was pushed against this wall and drove his fingers into Heahmund’s inky hair, the world around them simply ceased to exist.

Almost he forgot how to breathe as they finally broke the kiss again, both panting, inhaling the other’s scent, a chuckle escaping Heahmund’s throat. He would have expected to lose interest in this man by now. His attention was often fleeting. And yet, his touch still excited him beyond all reason.

“Oh, the things I want to do to you right now…” Heahmund’s growled words had the quality of sending all the blood in Ivar’s body straight to his crotch. His lover kept making fun of him for how easily aroused he was, calling it the prowess of his youth.

“We are being expected…” Ivar hummed, still close enough that his breath would ghost over Heahmund’s lips, still close enough to catch Heahmund’s bottom lip between his teeth. “Don't forget anything … you will have more than enough time tonight.”

“Only if you will not drink yourself into a stupor again,” Heahmund chuckled. “Hvitserk is a bad influence. He always challenged you to a drinking contest and you always end up on the floor.”

“Well, you have to … _subtly_ drag me away from my loving and well-meaning brothers then, I guess.”

By now there was no pretending anymore that his brothers might be unaware of their relationship. They were not outright and openly discussing the topic either but Ivar would be naive to think that they didn't know. At first, this realization had filled him with dread. He had kept worrying about what his brothers would think of him or if they deemed him unmanly or a disgrace perhaps even. Now, however, months after they had all been reunited in York once again, it sometimes scared him more to know that he was being accepted the way he was by his brothers.

“I could just throw you over my shoulder. I doubt they would care,” Heahmund then laughed as he finally took a step back and then started walking without waiting for him. “Come, Love, we don't want to make your brothers wait, do we?”

Ivar couldn't quite help the chuckle escaping his throat as he shook his head and started following him. 

**-End of Chapter 11-**


End file.
